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i^U of

Mrs. Percy Davidson

STANFORD UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN

BY MAARTEN MAARTENS.

Each, 12mo, doth, gilt, $1.50.

SOME VOMEN I HAVE KNOVN.

WITH FRONTISPIECE.

Maarten Maartens is recognized by all readers of
fiction as one of the most artistic and finished novel-
ists of the day, and he has done nothing that shows
certain fine characteristics of his work better than
this gallery of charmingly executed miniatures.

HER MEMORY.

WITH PHOTOGRAVURE PORTRAIT.

" Maarten Maartens took us all by storm some time ago
with his fine story christened ' God's Fool.' He established
himself at once in our affections as a unique creature who
had something to say and knew how to say it in the most
fascinating way. He is a serious story writer, who sprang
into prommence when he first put his pen to paper, and who
has ever since kept his work up^ to the standard of excel-
lence which he raised in the beginning." — N, V. Herald,

THE GREATER GLORY.

" Maarten Maartens in ' The Greater Glory ' has even
eclipsed his fine performance in the writing of ' God's
Fool ' This new work deals with high life in Holland, and
the Dutch master has portrayed it with the touch of true
genius. The story is fiill of color and of dramatic situations
delicately wrought out." — Philadelphia Press.

GOiyS FOOL.

tt '

The story is wonderfully^ brilliant . . . The interest
never lags ; the style is realistic and intense ; and there is
a constantly underlying current of subtle humor. ... It
is, in short, a book which no student of modem literature
should fail to read." — Boston Times.

JOOST AVELINGH.

jiven a glimp«e of Dutch polit
than a glimpse— a charming, all-round view of Dutch

" We are given a glimpkse of Dutch politics, andjnore

" " ig, all-round \"
people at home.*'— ^*w York Times.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

" It is your unfairness disgusis

?)clvJ^>r-T^, 3^^^3- ''^^^^•'^ V0\\W

VV\

SOME WOMEN
I HAVE KNOWN

MAARTEN MAARTENS

AUTHOR OF

JOOST AVELINGH, THE GREATER GLORY,

god's FOOL, HER MEMORY, ETC.

NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

1902

giU of

Mrs. Percy Davidson

STANFORD UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES

!M)

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN

BY MAARTEN MAARTENS.

Each, Uno, doth, gtH, $1.59.

SOME VOMEN I HAVE KNOVN.

WITH FRONTISPIECE.

HER MEMORY.

WITH PHOTOGRAVURE PORTRAIT.

^ " Maarten Maartens took us all by storm some time ago
with his fine story christened ' God's FooL' He established
himself at once in our affections as a unique creatiux who
had something to say and knew how to say it in the most
fascinating way. He is a serious story writer, who sprang
into prominence when he first put his pen to paper, and who
has ever since kept his work up to the standard of excel-
lence which he raised in the beginning." — N, V. Herald,

THE GREATER GLORY.

" Maarten Maartens in ' The Greater Glory ' has even
eclipsed his fine performance ^ in the writing of ' God's
Fool ' This new work deals with high life in Holland, and
the Dutch master has portrayed it with the touch of true
genius. The story b full of color and of dramatic situations
delicately wrought out." — Philadelphia Press.

GOD'S FOOL.

" The story is wonderfully^ brilliant . . . The interest
never lags ; the style is realistic and intense ; and there is
a constantly underlying current of subtle humor. ... It
is, in short, a book which no student of modem literature
should fail to read." — Boston Times,

JOOST AVELINGH.

" We are given a glimpse of Dutch politics, and more
than a glimpse— a charming, all-round view of Dutch
people at home." — New York limes.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

"It is your unfairness di^usis r

"^-clvJ^y-T^.^ "^o-zjjb.

frAax-\v/s vO\\\e

VV\

-'^

SOME WOMEN
I HAVE KNOWN

MAARTEN MAARTENS

AUTHOR OF

JOOST AVELINGH, THE GREATER GLORY,

GOD*S FOOL, HER MEMORY, ETC.

NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

1902

7. *-■

THE WOMEN WITHOUT A HISTORY

THESE HISTORIES OF WOMEN.

COPTRICHT, 1899,

By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

THE WOMEN WITHOUT A HISTORY

THESE HISTORIES OP WOMEN.

CONTENTS.

The Duchess Eleanor

PAGB
I

Mrs. Russell .

> <

. 29

Princesse ....

• 59

Madame de Parfondrieu .

. 87

Little Mary .

. 113

John

• <

• 1^9

Madame de Liancourt

• <

. 166

Our Cousin Sonia .

• <

192

Diane de Bragade .

• <

. 221

Madame de Mersy .

1 <

244

Meess ....

1 1

267

Annette de Viroflay

«
•

•

298

Vll

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR.

She was a German duchess. In that case,
you say, German duchesses being so very
few, she must have been either — ^you are mis-
taken. She was a Duchess of Lauenstein,
of the mediatized house of Stolzenau-Gute-
lande. She is dead, and nobody who cared
for her, except her children, need be sorry it
should be so.

They lived at Stolzenau always, the duke
and she, in the heart of the famous pine forest,
with sand wastes beyond, in flat, dark loneli-
ness, in splendid, gilded pomp. On very rare
occasions, when etiquette compelled, they
would spend a few days in Berlin — in the
gloomy old palace of the Ilsenstrasse — ^but as
soon as he possibly could the duke would
return to his pigs and his poultry-yard. The
duke was, by preference, a gentleman-farmer:
on this expensive and engrossing amusement
he wasted an absurdly disproportionate share

2 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

of his very considerable income, a still larger
share of his far less considerable intelligence,
and almost the whole of his nearly illimitable
leisure. He was a great, big, fair man, of
sickly complexion, with a magnificent mus-
tache and a constant tendency to boils. In
his youth he had contracted a strange little
habit of sniffing, which at times simply mad-
dened his wife.

The Duchess Eleanor had committed the
fatal mistake of accepting a husband she had
previously twice refused. She had accepted
him because everybody advised her to do so,
and also because she had succeeded in con-
vincing herself that, really, to accept him was
the wisest and kindest thing she could do.
The kindest, especially; it is all very well to
say that pity is akin to love; so be it, but
pity is quite as closely connected with con-
tempt, which, in some women, kills love for
good and all. The Duchess Eleanor would
have laughed, or fumed, had any one told her
that she had married the duke from pity of his
constancy; nor would such a view have been
correct, as no woman ever marries for a sin-
gle reason only, but certainly the fact remains
that she had first refused him twice. One re-
fusal surely may be a most charming prelude
to acceptance — ^but two?

Well, they were married and had many

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR. 3

children. Half a dozen children fill the big-
gest house, but small children are put to bed
at early hours, and then come the intermin-
able evenings. Up yonder, by the Baltic, you
can seldom sit out after sunset ; even in sum-
mer you must be content to light your lamps
indoors, and reflect that in a week or two you
will have to light them earlier.

Duke Ernest hated twilight, being always
far too busy to waste the precious moments.
He could not converse, he never read; he did
accounts, all through the longest evenings,
about eggSi and pounds of pork, and cart-
loads of manure.

It was the evenings, undoubtedly, of
which she first noticed the monotonous
length. Even that took her several years,
during which she realized very little of any-
thing. There could be no more difficult wom-
an to comprehend, had any one taken the
trouble to examine her character, than this
Duchess of Lauenstein. She was one of those
human beings who deliberately undertake to
misunderstand their own disposition, and
therefore to leave undeveloped or to misde-
velop their own natural qualities — or, rather,
to allow that these qualities should misde-
velop themselves. With that innate timidity
which is born of hereditary pride she had set
herself from childhood to ignore every natu-

4 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

ral impulse or instinct or ebullition of feeling,
cherishing that dread of the ridiculous which
was ever present before her eyes, checking
herself, curbing, keeping back, intimidated
by a mother who laughed at her, fretting
inwardly under the self-imposed strain. An
Austrian by birth, she had partially broken
down some of her barriers during a few years
of society gaiety in the reserved circle of Vien-
nese aristocracy; once married to Duke Er-
nest, she had disappeared behind the hedge.
She had never, from her youth upward, come
into contact with any form of real life out-
side her castle walls; she had no idea how the
poor e:?!Listed, or the rich, or what anybody
did in art, commerce, philanthropy, politics,
beyond the little set of coroneted cousins
who formed to her — although, of course, she
knew there were common people, and also
Chinamen — the whole sentient human
race.

Unfortunately for her, the duke, her hus-
band, discouraged her taking any interest in
the many things which for him had no exist-
ence, and also in the few pursuits which, en-
grossing most of his attention, lay, as he said,
beyond her ken. He had, of course, a small
army of officials under him — ^an " intendant,"
a treasurer, inspectors, stewards, head-forest-
ers, head-keepers, etc. ; he was under these in

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR. 5

SO far as he listened to all their proposals; he
stood next to them in so far as he always sug-
gested something else. His valet, morning
and evening, reported all the gossip and the
scandal that ought never to have reached so
august a personage, and kept back, at his own
discretion, any mention of abuses the duke
would have combated had he known. Un-
able to delegate work to others, convinced
that he could do everything far better him-
self, his " transparency " poked a silver-headed
cane into every dung-hill on his estate and
ordered it to be renloved to some equally
offensive corner. Often it was not removed.
And if he found it again, he had either for-
gotten all about it, or he passed it by in
silence, or he made an immense to-do about
it — a small revolution — according to the hu-
mour he happened to be in. The part he
should have played, in public life in the gov-
ernment of the country, he was utterly un-
fitted for, and so he stopped at home and
trifled.

He interested himself in the welfare of
his servants and their wages, and insisted upon
personally scolding them. One after another
the duchess's housekeepers left, and her serv-
ants gave warning — there were two or three
loyal domestics, hereditary, who made life im-
possible for any of the others — ^and the semi-

6 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

royal household was filled with kitchen squab-
bles and backstairs abuse, such as many would
imagine to be perfectly impossible in palaces.
The duchess paid little attention to these
matters; for whenever she tried to do so, her
husband intervened, snubbing her, and telling
her that she ought to have managed it all very
differently, and now he would have to put it
right, and he wished she hadn't interfered.
She had got into the habit of not responding
to his violence, excepting by an irony he never
understood. Once, on the terrace, among
the tubbed myrtles — myrtles! — ^just as she
was slowly moving away, a beautifully
haughty figure, from a discussion about some
reprimand of his she had tried to tone down,
she paused and turned, with a well-known
sweep of her little dark head:

" I am never to interfere," she said, " be-
tween you and the maids? I have no inten-
tion of doing so. Not even when you kiss
them! " And she left him, and walked away
to where she could hear her children calling
across the wide stretch of lawn.

" Dear me, how exceedingly awkward,"
he said to himself, violently sniffing, as he
always did when excited. " I had thought
she was far too stupid to know. But she's
not. Well, I daresay she'll be too scornful
to mind." With which comforting reflection

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR. 7

he also went his way to the cow-houses to
inquire about a calf.

And, indeed, she was too scornful to mind.
When she met him at dinner — there were only
the two of them — she asked half a dozen ques-
tions about general subjects, to which she
knew he would have no reply. She herself
did not care for the answers, though she fan-
cied she did. In any case, it would be diffi-
cult to tell any one at a moment's notice
whether the peace of Europe remains assured
or whether proportional suffrage exists in
Spain, especially if neither of the persons con-
versing feels even a perfunctory interest in
the matter, or has more than the faintest idea
what " proportional suffrage *' means.

" The evenings are rapidly shortening,"
said the duke; "we shall soon be getting
round to the shooting." And he rubbed his
hands. There was one happiness in life, as
he well knew — sport. All the rest simply was
because it had to be. The non-shooting
months of the year were so much unavoidable
waste of time.

The duchess also preferred the autumn.
Guests very seldom came to Stolzenau, for the
duke did not like the inconvenience of re-
ceiving them; and, besides, everybody found
the place intolerably dull, but at this time
of year the house filled; there were a couple

((
tt

8 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

of famous battues; the duchess, half fright-
ened, enjoyed receiving the numerous visit-
ors. Gradually she woke up, 'and liked her
dresses and the brightness and laughter and
the amusing things some of the gentlemen
said. Then, by the time she had got accus-
tomed to it all again it was over, and she sat
alone opposite the duke.

" That reminds me," said the duchess,
" we shall soon have to see about a tutor for
Wilhelm." Wilhelm was the eldest son, aged
ten.

I know," replied the duke.
You remember," she continued with
slow insistence, " we agreed that next winter
Wilhelm was to have a tutor in any case,"

" I know, I know. There's plenty of
time," said Duke Ernest, taking wine.

She flushed. Here was one of the many
points of disagreement between them; for she
was always trying, in the teeth of his tacit
indifference, to get the children taught some-
thing.

" You talk as if the boy were to grow up
for a * schoolmaster,' " he said. " The Stolze-
naus have always managed to get on "

" By their inherent stupidity! "

" Thank you. No; by being Stolzenaus."

" Those times are over. Now-a-days a
man is what he is worth."

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR. 9

" What do you know of the times, my dear
Eleanor? A Stolzenau will always be worth
more than most other men. But do not ex-
cite yourself: as it happens, I have taken steps
to secure a teacher for Wilhelm."

" Without telling me! " she cried angrily.

** I never tell you about engaging serv-
ants. The last time I told you was about the
new pig-keeper, and you said you did not
care."

" But my own son! " She struck her fin-
ger tips nervously on the table-cloth. Duke
Ernest sniffed. " 'Tis the best pig-breeder in
the country," he said; " we shall get a first
prize at the show."

" And to whom, pray, is Wilhelm's future
to be intrusted? "

" Oh, nothing is settled. I asked my
uncle, the prince-bishop, to find us a young
theologian. He wrote me that he knew of no-
body at the moment, but that he had men-
tioned the subject by accident to your Uncle
Sigismund "

** Uncle Sigismund! The very last! "

** So I should have thought. But we were
both wrong. Your uncle has a suitable per-
son, born and bred on one of his own estates,
as I understand; a young man who has just
completed excellent studies — he strongly rec-
ommends him."

lO SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

She sat trembling from head to foot, try-
ing not to tremble. " You have engaged/'
she said at last, " this protege of my Uncle
Sigismund? "

" Yes. Don't be absurd, Eleanor; I had
forgotten to tell you about it. I had so much
in my head; what with the farms "

She rose from the table. " I am going up
to wish the children good-night," she said.
Then she burst out: " Uncle Sigismund! A
vaurien! A panier percel A man of the
world! A VoltaireanI A dandy! To him
you apply for a teacher to educate my child! "

He stared at her. " I do not understand
you in the slightest," he said. ** What queer,
violent expressions you use! Uncle Sigis-
mund —

No, you don't understand me in the
slightest," she said, passing out through the
door he held open for her. An hour later she
once more sat by him in his own room, as al-
ways of evenings. He smoked at his bureau,
surrounded by ledgers. She, with a low lamp
at her right hand, made tea. The long silence
seemed to irritate him, though often if she
spoke he would beat his foot on the floor and
repeat figures aloud. ** Why don't you go
and play the piano? " he said. '* You are giv-
ing that up altogether." Then, as he remem-
bered about " kissing the servants," he added

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR. n

graciously: " When I married you they said
you were the finest musician in Vienna."

" There was always Bangowski/' she re-
plied, a little bitterly.

" Of course I didn't mean professionals.
But you never touch the piano now."

" No; why should I? Do you want me
to go and sit alone in that big room of
evenings? In the winter there isn't even a
fire!"

" You could have a fire lighted. And, be-
sides, this isn't winter."

" True, you are quite right. There is no
reason why I shouldn't play the piano."

" But "

" But I don't. This man who is coming
— pardon, do not let me disturb you at your
work! "

" No; I am very anxious to get through
with all this before the shooting party comes
down."

" When is that? " she asked, pouring out
the tea.

" I have asked most of them for this day
three weeks. Is there any one you would care
to have besides the usual lot? "

" No, thank you. And the tutor, when
does he come? "

" About the same time. I daresay your
uncle will bring him."

12 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" We shall hardly have time to pay much
attention to him then/'

" Do you intend to pay him attentions? ''

She did not answer. After all, a woman
can not strike a man; though a man can
hourly strike a woman. She refused to re-
vert to the subject again, yet it was constantly
in her mind. She was passionately proud of
her eldest son, passionately fond, under frigo-
rific reserve, of all her flaxen children.

When the tutor appeared amid a flow of
guests, she received him with unintentional
indifference. Uncle Sigismund, a fine old
beau of seventy, with a slim waist and bright
complexion, introduced a timid, insignificant,
dark-eyed young man — Herr Goertz. The
duchess hoped Herr Goertz would be happy
at Stolzenau, and turned to some one else.
At dinner Uncle Sigismund sat beside her
and was very gallant and a little risque, telling
many amusing stories about the wicked world
he knew so well.

Late at night the duchess knocked at her
husband's dressing-room door. His valet was
with him. The duchess motioned the man to
retire.

" This Herr Goertz," she began abruptly,
" who is to be the teacher of Wilhelm — I
know nothing of him, nor do you."

" He looks just the kind of person that

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR.

sort of person ought to look," replied his
Transparency, winding his watch.

" Ernest, all I wish to say is this: I will
let that man become Wilhelm's tutor on one
condition, on one condition — do you under-
stand me? "

" Well? "

** That if ever I should wish him to leave
the house he shall go ! "

*'Oh, of course! Why?"

" He is probably unsuitable. My Uncle
Sigismund's idea of a tutor is sure to be as bad
as bad can be. I will not have Wilhelm sacri-
ficed to Uncle Sigismund's notions. I shall
watch this man. If he be anything like what
I expect him to be, he must go."

" Very well. Don't watch him too much
at first; he already seems sufficiently nervous.
Wilhelm will grow up all right. He is begin-
ning to shoot rabbits quite nicely — ^almost as
well as I did at his age. Good-night."

" Sleep well." The duchess lay awake
some time thinking of her half a dozen chil-
dren, and of Uncle Sigismund's stories, and
of Vienna. Then she fell asleep to the moan-
ing of the wind among the pine trees.

It was not till after the departure of the
guests that she again realized the presence of
the tutor. Then, first, she discovered him, as
it were. He was a pale young man, tall, dark,

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

uninteresting till he lifted his eyes. Wilhelm,
when interrogated, shrugged his shoulders
and said the tutor knew a lot.

" It is you who know nothing! " exclaimed
his mother, annoyed.

" I can shoot," replied Wilhelm compla-
cently," and I can talk languages. Papa
says that is enough for a Prince Stolzenau,

mamma."

Your father laughs at you," she replied,
and added loyally: ** He himself can do a great
deal more." She left Wilhelm reflecting on
his father's abilities. That evening, in the
dulness of the duke's room, she rang the bell
for a servant.

" Tell Herr Goertz that I wish to see him
here," she said. The duke looked up in an-
noyance from his newspaper. " We shall not
disturb you," said the duchess.

" Barley is up," complacently responded
the duke.

The tutor was startled by the summons,
for he had not yet come in contact with the
mistress of the house. He hurriedly arranged
his toilet. The man servant waited with a
smile. " She won't notice that," thought the
servant.

" I should like to look over your list of
work," said the duchess; " I should like to
know what you do."

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR. 15

He flushed with pleasure. It was the first
word of interest in his labour which reached
him in the desolation of this princely house-
hold. " Durchlaucht sind zu giitig," he said.

Those were words she heard daily; she was
sick of hearing them. With a little smile of
disdain she bade him tell her about Wilhelm.

" Prince Wilhelm is backward," the tutor
said boldly, and suddenly she looked straight
at him with fresh interest in her face. She
made him fetch his table of lessons and went
over its details. He answered as best he could,
eager about the task he had set himself, a little
dazzled by her white neck, her white dress,
her jewels, the perfume floating around her,
the unaccustomed title of her princely rank.

" If Frau Herzogin will permit me," he
said, pointing, " I have a second hour here,
on Thursdays, for orthography:"

" What is orthography? " asked Duke Er-
nest, suddenly looking out behind his paper,
irritation in his voice.

" Spelling," interposed the duchess quiet-
ly: her husband laughed.

" What a long word for a simple thing! "
he cried. " That's just like all your teaching.
Why, I've spelt all my life, and never known
it was orthography."

" Thank you, mein Herr," said the duch-
ess, gravely returning the card; ** I hope that

1 6 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

my son will reward your endeavours." The
teacher bowed and withdrew. Scarcely had
the door closed upon him when:

" You see, he says the boy is backward! "
cried the duchess.

" Of course he says so. Six months hence
he will say that Wilhelm, thanks to his good
teaching, is ahead of all other boys. When
Rudel came he said the pigs "

" I am going to bed! " cried the duchess.

" Good-night ! " She left him. She was
getting into this habit of going to her
room not much after nine. Sometimes she
read a novel; sometimes she yawned herself to
sleep.

It was on one such weary evening, shivery,
drizzly, with a beat of rain and moan of trees,
that the duchess, crossing the great hall up-
stairs to her apartment, noticed a sound of
music from the children's corridor. She went
back a few paces, opened a baize door, and
Hstened. Suddenly her eyes shone bright —
she had recognised the melody. She passed
down the corridor to one of the schoolrooms
— Wilhelm's — and paused for a moment out-
side. Then she slowly pushed open the door
and entered. Herr Goertz was at the piano.
He stopped, in confusion, rising rapidly to
his feet.

" Where did you learn that tune? Where

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR.

do you come from? What is it? " stammered
the duchess, seeking to control her agita-
tion.

" It is Carinthian, Frau Herzogin. It was
taught me by a cousin, who is a game-keeper
on the estates of your highness's father. I was
only trying some variations."

" I know," already she had stiffened.
" You surprised me. It is ten years at least
since I last heard that tune. Do you know
any more of the melodies of my home? "

" Yes, Frau Herzogin."

" Have the kindness to play me some."

She gave the order as she might have
given it to a servant. He coloured, sat down
at the piano, and began. She stood listening
by the door. There was no other light in the
room than that of the pianoforte candles.
Presently she sank into a chair, and covered
her face with her hands.

He played on for several minutes, passing
from one folk-song to another, blending them
together in an arrangement of his own.
When he finished there was a moment of
silence.

" You play superbly," she gasped, and left
the room.

There was no reading of novels that night.
The Duchess Eleanor, whom nobody ever saw
weep, lay on her bed in a long torrent of tears.

I8 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

For two days she took no more notice
of the tutor than merely to acknowledge his
deferential salutes. An old maiden aunt of
Duke Ernest came to stay at Stolzenau — a
terrible Princess Valeria, of whom everybody
was afraid. This lady inquired about the
tutor, disapproved of his German pronuncia-
tion, asked where he came from, told him he
oughtn't to, and finally, in the course of an
intolerable evening, sat up from a snooze and
demanded to know whether " the Austrian "
could play.

" I don't know, Tm sure. I never asked,"
replied the duke.

He can play," said the duchess calmly.
Then send for him and tell him to, for
goodness sake! " cried the Princess Valeria.

** But / must go on with my work," ex-
claimed her nephew in distress.

" Nobody wants you, Ernest. Eleanor
and I, we will go to the music room with the
tutor. And, Herr, have the goodness to play
me some dance music!" said the Princess
Valeria.

So the tutor played Viennese waltzes, and
the Duchess Eleanor quivered in her great
Louis XIV bergkre. Then, unasked and there-
fore unpermitted, he glided on into some of
the Carinthian melodies he had reproduced so
beautifully the other night.

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR. 19

The Princess Valeria rapped the table with
her fan.

" That, Herr, is not dance music/' she in-
terrupted.

" Local dances, your highness," he an-
swered, looking up from the keyboard. In
the full light of the chandelier the duchess
recognised and delighted in the adorable im-
pudence of his eyes.

" You are from BoedUng," said the duch-
ess, as soon as he stopped, " my Uncle Sigis-
mund's place — ^you were born there? " Yes,
he confessed, he had been born on the estate.

" They are not Germans at all," said the
Princess Valeria.

" I have been there so often as a child,"
said the duchess musingly. ** I remem-
ber "

" Eleanor, shall we go back to your hus-
band? It is chilly here. Why don't you make
your servants keep up the fires? "

" I thank you very much for your play-
ing, Herr Candidat. You must come down
oftener of evenings and make music." He
bowed to the ground before her beautiful
presence.

" But I have heard," he said, stammering
with due apology, " that Frau Herzogin her-
self is one of the most admirable performers
of the day."

20 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" That day is over," said the duchess, and
swept aside for her aunt to pass out.

Every evening of the princess's stay after
that there was music in this otherwise de-
serted saloon. The tutor was indeed a musi-
cian of great merit, himself a musical instru-
ment that flung all its passion across the
chords. He played Slavonic and south Aus-
trian melodies — Hungarian and Polish — ^his
execution was all sentiment and fervour, all
eagerness and excitement and thrill. He
played only such music as he knew he could
master — the music of torrents and whirlwinds,
of thrushes and larks. Duke Ernest, in the
pauses of his labours, came, sat down in a
corner, and dozed.

" Permit me," said the duchess at the mu-
sician's elbow. He had just stopped playing;
he sprang from his seat.

She took it without lifting a face. Never-
theless he saw the fire in her eyes, the gasp at
her breast. She struck the first fierce notes
of Uhlman's Rhapsodie hongroise, hesitated,
then glided into Tscherkowsky's Monlied —
the sensuous adagio sank like balm on the
wounds of the other's striking.

Presently Duke Ernest sniffed. She broke
of? with a bang, rising hastily.

"Aie! what has happened?" cried the
duke, sitting up; " Eleanor, at the piano!

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR. 2 1

My dear aunt, this must be in honour of
you."

** Pray continue," said the Princess Va-
leria.

" No; we have had music enough for to-
night. I am tired," replied the duchess.
" Please give me leave, Aunt Valeria, to with-
draw." She swept a deep courtesy to her re-
lations, ignoring the tutor, and walked away.

" It is incredible how tired she often is,"
said the Princess Valeria. " I think she ought
to take more exercise."

" I hate walking," replied the duke; " I
think she ought to drink milk."

" Milk is fattening. I shall tell her she
must walk," said Valeria decidedly.

" Well, then she must go with the chil-
dren, for I have no time."

" The children creep," replied the duchess
when this plan was proposed to her.

Wilhelm does not creep," said her aunt.
Do you want me to walk with Wilhelm
and the tutor? "

" Why not? And one of the governesses,
of course. Or without the tutor. Absurd! "

" Absurd, indeed ; I should never have
thought of such a thing," said the duchess.
Nevertheless she now frequently took walks
with the elder children and their teachers.
Sometimes the tutor was of the party, some-

22 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

times he was not. And occasionally she had
brief talks with him about Uncle Sigismund's
home, which was the tutor's home also; about
her own home, which he knew so well, for
there was the home of his cousins — of home,
home, home — ^brief burning talks about the
distant southern country, so different from
the sand and the small pines around them, the
dear land of brightness and gaiety — home.

And in the evenings she listened to the
tutor's playing; once or twice even, while
Duke Ernest grumbled in his armchair, she
played a few duets with the tutor. But his
hands trembled; he struck the wrong notes.
She rose from the piano annoyed.

" He is vulgarer than I thought," she said
to herself; " it frightens him to play duets
with a princess! "

But a day or two later she asked Wilhelm
what was the tutor's Christian name.
Ernest," said the boy, " like papa."
Ridiculous!" cried the duchess, greatly
vexed. Wilhelm told the tutor, and the tutor
drew his own conclusion. *' It is an imperti-
nence, I know," said the tutor; " but I can
not help it, prince." It was under this bitter
impression that he answered the duchess, on
one of their walks, when she asked him what
his political opinions were.

** I am a Socialist, Frau Herzogin. At

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR.

least, of course, I am a moderate Liberal ; but
to your highness that would mean the same
as a Socialist, I suppose." She resented the
vaguely felt taunt. Of late they had often
had really instructive conversations; he was
opening up a new world to her, and now he
chose to be dumb. Instantly she drew up the
drawbridge, which she never let down for
long. That evening, again, she stood listen-
ing to his playing in the twilight. Duke Er-
nest had one of his bad boils on the neck.
He could not, or would not, look after his
farm accounts. He lay back on the sofa com-
plaining and sniffing, and his favourite serv-
ant poulticed him. The duchess, from where
she stood by the window in the half light,
could see her husband's pasty face beneath
the lamp-shade, and could also see, against the
steady candles, the clear-cut features, the dark
complexion, the gleaming eyes of the tutor.
She stood watching them long.

" Ernest," she said that evening, pausing
beside his couch, " I am come to remind you
of your promise. The tutor must go."

"Eh? What? Ow! " exclaimed the duke
as he turned his neck.

" You remember you promised me I
should do as I wish. I want another tutor
for Wilhelm."

" Nonsense ! I thought you liked this man

24 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

Goertz. You seem to get on well enough
with him."

" I do not know what you mean by * get-
ting on ' with him. I do not think he is the
right man here. I wish him to go."
You do not like him? "
What an expression! I have my reasons
for thinking he ought to be replaced."

" Has he been making love to one of the
governesses? He's a good-looking fellow.
Ha! ha! "

You are coarse," she said haughtily.
He has always acted with the greatest pro-
priety; we must let him get some other more
lucrative occupation. But I do not think he
is the right man for a tutor here. You have

given me your promise
*' Nonsense! "

You refuse? " She stood away from
him, splendid in her silver brocade.

"Yes; unless you give me some rational
reason. I am perfectly satisfied. Why, your
uncle is coming to-morrow ; what explanation
could I give him for dismissing the man? "

" You — you promised," she exclaimed.

" Nonsense! I say, give me a reason."

" My reason? To see whether the Duke
of Lauenstein can keep his word to his wife."

" Well, you are answered. The Duke of
Lauenstein can break his word to his wife."

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR. 25

She went toward the door. " Ring, if you
please/' he called after her; " I can't think
why that fellow don't bring the poultice! "

Next afternoon came Prince Sigismund,
and the duke recounted to him, with roars
of laughter, how Eleanor had taken a sudden
dislike to Goertz. The old gentleman listened
attentively, curling his waxed mustache.

" And why is this, my niece," he queried
after the tale was told.

"Ask Ernest," replied the duchess, with
compressed passion. " He can tell amusing
stories. He can also tell unamusing lies."

" Fie, what a word! " The old man said
no more, but he curiously eyed his niece's
flashing glances at her lord. He waited till
he met the tutor — by accident, as it were, next
morning in the park.

" Have a cigar? " he said. " You are look-
ing far from well."

" I thank your highness, I am well
enough," said Goertz.

" No, I tell you, you are ill," objected the
old prince sharply. " This northern air evi-
dently does not suit you. You must come
down south again. As it happens, I have an
excellent place for you in my estate office."

" Your highness is too gracious. For the

present, I would ask leave to stay here.

Prince Wilhelm "

26 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Confound Prince Wilhelm! I tell you,
you had much better resign before they turn
you out. The duke, I have reason to under-
stand, is not satisfied with your method "

" And the duchess? "

Prince Sigismund stopped dead in the
middle of the path. " You will give in your
resignation at once," he said peremptorily.
" You understand? Ask the duke no ques-
tions — not a word. Thereby you will save
your own position. Simply state that I have
offered you so excellent a situation that you
crave his highness's permission to accept it.
And now hold your tongue."

The young man turned crimson. " I un-
derstand," he said; ** but I have not mer-
ited "

" I do not know what you have merited.
I do not wish to know. Surely you can be
satisfied with what you get? "

" I refuse," said Ernest Goertz, still crim-
son. " If the duke dismisses me, of course I
will go."

" You refuse! " exclaimed the Prince Sig-
ismund with an oath. " Say anything like
that again, and I turn your old father into the
streets!"

*' I crave your highnesses pardon; I had
forgotten my father."

" And will you do as I bid? "

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR. 27

" I beg of your highness, as a favour, to
obtain my dismissal from the duke."

Prince Sigismund stared at the young man
before him. ** By G — , youVe a good-plucked
one," he said, " but you must go. Here,
you've broken your cigar across; have an-
other." A little later he found his niece in
the music room. " You play again, now-a-
days? " he said with a smile. " Ernest has
developed a liking for music."

She nodded to him to leave her in peace.

" Oh! I shall not disturb you. I only
looked in to say this: I have got an excellent
place for your tutor in my estate office, but
the stupid fellow refuses to accept it unless
you people advise him to — first dismiss him,
in fact. Some scruples of conscience about
his duty to Wilhelm. Wilhelm is an idiot,
like his father. Any one could teach him the
little he is ever likely to know."

She went on playing softly, but she could
not keep the tell-tale spot from her cheek.
" Well, then, Ernest must give him his
conge," she said.

" Ernest will not. Some pig-headedness
about not doing as you tell him, I believe.
Stupid men never listen to their wives."

She struck a few loud chords in her music.
" Of course Herr Goertz had better go," she
said. " Did not I say so before? " And she

28 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

went on playing until Herr Goetz came into
the music room.

" Frau Herzogin, a thousand pardons!"
he stammered, as she rose. " It is the hour,
I believe, of Prince Wilhelm's music lesson.""
Herr Goertz/' she answered abruptly,
you must accept this place of my Uncle
Sigismund's. We must let you go."

His eyes sought the floor. " Oh, un-
doubtedly," he answered; *' if I have failed to
give satisfaction "

" There is no question of that. You have
given every satisfaction. But this is in your
own interest."

" I care little for my own interest. That
is to say, my own interest is not the one thing
to consider."

" It is right that you should go. I ask
you to accept this place; do you understand
me— I."

Then his eyes swept up to hers. She stood
immovable.

*' I will accept it," he said.

He bowed down to the ground. She
passed him and went out at the wide-open
door.

MRS. RUSSELL

Mrs. Russell was a very good woman,
very philanthropic. She said she was con-
nected with " the " Russells, but that was not
correct. However, she was connected with
very good (socially speaking) Russells — a sort
of second-best Russells — and her place in so-
ciety was Mayfair.

Her husband belonged to that numerous
class who earn comfortable incomes, and do
comfortable work, in Government offices.
His evenings, therefore, were his own; more
his own than he desired them to be, for he
would gladly have shared them all with Mrs.
Russell.

** Algernon is so exacting," said the lady,
with considerable truth. " He would like me
to stop at home every night in the year; and
really, you know, there are duties one owes
to society. Not to society as such — oh, no!
I am not thinking of these — but to one's fel-
low men. One who, as I, is engaged in phil-
anthropic work must inevitably keep up a

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

large circle of acquaintance. I must go to re-
ceptions and dinners and conversaziones so
as to meet the people I want for my work.
Algernon refuses to understand how all these
things are interlaced."

*' I am sure you are admirable," said every-
body.

*' No, no! I do not mean that. I — I do
my best; but life is very difficult, especially
philanthropy. Now, there are the children.
Sometimes I fancy Algernon thinks I neglect
them. He never says anything. Yet I have
always been so especially careful not to neg-
lect the children. I have gone through " line
upon line " with them twice. And they both
have classes of their own at my Sunday school.
You can not think how sweet it is to see dear
little Mary — she is only seven — teaching
other children the stories out of Genesis. And
Justin! he is such a delicate boy. I have
always been especially anxious about his
health.'!

" Your children will rise up and call you
blessed," said a man in a white choker who
had come to collect.

But that was prophecy. At the present
moment Justin, a weakly boy of ten, over-
indulged in every sickly fancy, did not bless
but abuse. He had got into an ugly habit of
calling his mother names, nor did the Scrip-

MRS. RUSSELL.

ture cards which she hung about his bedroom
prove an efficacious remedy. So she pre-
tended not to hear, and would smilingly re-
mark to little Marian that Justin had got
his bad headache again; whereupon Justin
would grow exceedingly violent, until some-
times, but rarely, his father would happen to
look in and box his ears. Then Mrs. Russell
would be greatly annoyed at her husband, and
possibly would say so in the children's pres-
ence, explaining that love and philanthropy
and prudence and gentleness and wisdom pre-
clude the boxing of ears. Justin early ac-
cepted this opinion, and also discovered that
ill-health was a powerful lever by which to
move his mother's otherwise ponderous will.
" Sickness is a blessing in disguise," said Mrs.
Russell, and Justin, when not too sick, agreed.
So he didn't go to school, but stopped
at home and worried the servants. If he didn't
want to drive, he had the stomach ache; but
if his mother promised not to pay calls, the
stomach ache would disappear. He was om-
nipresent, always noisy, always troublesome;
and if Mr. Russell ventured to declare with
sudden warmth that things must alter, that
the boy must go tb boarding school, Mrs.
Russell would look up angrily from her tracts
and her missionary reports and say that the
child was ill.

32 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

Meanwhile, little Marian grew up all to
herself — unnoticed but for the warmth of her
father's good-night kisses — as sweet and as
frail as a little girl could be.

And all sorts of charity claims gathered
round Mrs. Russell and stuck to her like lim-
pets. She was a portly, handsome woman,
who had never known an ache in her life.
Occasionally she would feel very tired, but a
ten-mile walk would always rest her. Once
her shoulders were recognised to be broad
and strong and willing, all the woes of the
world came tumbling down upon them. And
she bravely put her strength to the work.
She was willing, of course, and she had every
mortal's pardonable love of approval, but she
honestly rejoiced to think of the good she
was doing — honestly even when her name ap-
peared in printed lists of patronesses, with an
H. R. H. at the head.

" Going out again? " said her husband, as
they met at the hall door.

" Yes, of course. Don't you remember
that I told you? I am going to dine with
Lady Gawtry, to meet Lady Foye."

" Dear me! and I — where am I to
dine? "

" At the club, I suppose. How can you
be so irritating, Algernon ! You refused Lady
Gawtry's invitation, you know you did. You

MRS. RUSSELL.

told me to write that you had a previous en-
gagement."

" Well, I had entirely forgotten. I sup-
pose you must go."

** Of course I must go, at this last mo-
ment! Besides, I am most anxious to meet
Lady Foye. She is the President of the Guild
of St. Mary of Magdala."

" I see. And is Lord Gawtry connected
with that business, too? "

" How can you speak so coarsely! He is
not on the committee, but I should be much
surprised if he did not dine with us. He takes
an intelligent interest in the work." She
spoke the last words with much meaning, and
drew her fur^ cloak round the low neck of her
yellow satin dress.

" Oh, indeed! Takes an interest, does he?
An intelligent interest! "

Mr. Russell burst into loud laughter,
which was not, however, entirely mirthful.
He passed upstairs, without waiting to hand
his wife into the carriage. In the nursery
Marian sat looking out for her good-night
kiss; he gave it her.

** Where are you going, father? Why
have you got your coat on? "

I am going to dine at the club, child."
I should like to dine at the club," re-
sponded Marian, already half asleep, ** moth-

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

er — says — ^you get such delicious dinners
there."

He stood looking at the child for a few
moments before he went out. The next
morning he said to his wife:

** Marian is looking very poorly; I should
like to take her to Sir Henry Parsons."

" Marian? I didn't notice. That is her
usual colour. By all means, let us show her
to Sir Henry. I was just thinking I should
like to consult him about Justin."

" In that case let us take them both.
There will be less chance of having them sent
away in opposite directions. Now, Marian to
me looks as if she stood in need of a little
Riviera sunshine."

" My dear Algernon, I do trust Sir Henry
will not recommend any travelling. Young
children are much better at home. And, real-
ly, I could not leave London at this moment.
For the next month my presence in town is
essential. The Piccaninny Company is large-
ly dependent on my aid."

" And what, pray, is the Piccaninny Com-
pany? "

She stared at him indignantly.

" Algernon, you do not mean to say that
you have forgotten? "

" For the moment I can not "

"You take no interest in any of my work "

MRS. RUSSELL.

— the angry tears were in her voice. " When
I was telling you the other night, I half
thought you were asleep! The Piccaninny
Sauce Company is the great business under-
taking of the Bishop of the Carribee Islandsrr-
the Converted Cannibal Islands. It is the
recipe of the famous sauce the natives used
for centuries with — their primitive fare; it is
made of herbs that grow on the islands. It
was peculiarly adapted, so they tell me, to —
to "

" Roast piccaninny."

" Do not interrupt me — to their aborigi-
nal dinner; but it is equally delicious with
pork chops. We had it last night at
Lady Gawtry's; I can assure you it is far
nicer than ' Sause Robert.' And it is best
of all, I am told, with fried bacon. It
will revolutionize the British breakfast
table."

" But that's business, not charity. Are
you going to start company promoting? "

" Have you forgotten your own conten-
tion that the inventor of a nice new sauce is
the chief of benefactors? Would it be noth-
ing to add a fresh relish to the artisan's simple
fare? But our aim is far wider. With the
enormous proceeds of Piccaninny Sauce —

* Piccaninny ' is a native word meaning

* pungent ' — the bishop hopes to raise funds

36 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

enough to build a church in every island of
the South Pacific!"

" Even in the uninhabited ones? "

"Scoffer! Yes, why not? Does an empty
church, to you, seem a foolish thing? Would
you rather see it peopled with Gallios? "

"With what?"

Mrs. Russell blushed a little confusedly.
That was what the bishop said," she replied.
Why, pray, should the large profits always
go to the Philistines? In any case, you see
it is imperative I should remain in London.
I hope Sir Henry Parsons will quite under-
stand that."

** Oh ! no doubt Sir Henry Parsons would
be made to understand that."

But Sir Henry, after carefully gauging
the financial status of the children's father, de-
clared that they must go to the Riviera for
a month.

" But surely the little girl's lungs are all
right ! " cried the mother.

Sir Henry cast a quick glance at her.
" Her lungs are all right," he said, " and so
are the boy's. But your Httle daughter might
go south with great advantage, and your little
boy must."

" Must! " exclaimed the mother, pallid.

" Oh, there is nothing radically wrong.
General debility."

MRS. RUSSELL.

" I told you so! " She turned triumphant-
ly to her husband.

" I should not recommend the French
Riviera," continued Sir Henry, studying his
finger-tips. " It is not suitable for children.
I should advise you to go to Parlona, on the
Italian side, a very sheltered yet bracing spot.
There is a very good hotel there, the Grand
Hotel Parlona. Good-day."

** Parlona, of course! " exclaimed Russell,
as soon as they were in the carriage; " I heard
yesterday at the club that he is sending every-
body, this year, to Parlona! "

" Algernon, what a mercy it is we went
to him!"

" He has shares in the hotel. Of course,
we shall not go there! "

" Not go there! And the boy? "

Justin pricked up his ears.

" He said nothing serious was wrong with
the boy. He put him forward because he

saw that you " The husband checked

himself and looked out of the window. Pres-
ently he took and pressed his little girl's little
hand.

" Do not speak to me just yet," said Mrs.
Russell in great agitation. " It is very diffi-
cult. My life is so hard to arrange. I can not
leave London. But of course the children
must go. Justin, don't you feel a draught? ''

38 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

"Yes," replied Justin; "let's stop at a
sweet-shop and buy some jujubes."

" I shall get down at the corner of Cock-
spur Street," said the father.

" May I go with you, father? " asked
Marian.

Where would you go, child? "
To your club. Mother says gentlemen's
clubs are the most beautiful places in Lon-
don."

" Mother is mistaken. But they don't ad-
mit little girls into clubs."

" When / am grown," interposed Justin,
" I shall belong to a goose club like Martin,
and have roast goose once a month."

" Do you belong to a goose club, father? "
questioned Marian, her innocent blue eyes
turned aloft.

Yes, dear, a very large one." '
What is the name of yours, father? "
queried Justin. " Martin's is called * The
Jolly Tipplers'; he wouldn't tell me, but I
kicked his shins."

"Martin!" exclaimed Mrs. Russell in
horror. " * The Tipplers,' and he took the
Blue Ribbon six months ago! "

" Mine is called * The Benedicts,' " said
Russell; " I believe I am an honorary member.
Here we are in Piccadilly."

"Ah, that reminds me! " exclaimed Mrs.

MRS. RUSSELL.

Russell, with a fresh note of genuine distress.
** The annual meeting of the Piccadilly Night
Association is next Monday week. Algernon,
my presence in town is indispensable."

" Yet I foresee that you will go with Jus-
tin," replied Algernon. ** The whole Parlona
business is utterly absurd. At least visit
Cannes and Nice, and introduce your sauce
into all the big hotels."

" True," she said earnestly; " there would
be work for me everywhere. And nobody is
really indispensable. Justin, would you like
to go south? "

" If I can take the pony with me," replied
Justin, ** and pop and the canaries. Other-
wise I shall stop at home."

" And go to boarding school," said his
father, " while we take Marian."

Justin smiled.

" I couldn't go without Justin," cried
Marian.

" Why, Marian, you know he is always
pinching you! "

" He won't pinch me any more, father.
He's promised."

"Justin's pinches don't hurt," said Mrs.
Russell; " he only does it in fun."

So the family began to prepare for their
migration, gradually in their conversation ac-
cepting the fact. Mrs. Russell came down

40 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

one morning with swollen eyes and pallid
cheeks, and wrote various official letters to
various official ladies. Her husband was
touched by her uncomplaining resignation.
" They also serve who only stand and wait,"
he said.

" Justin coughed all last night," replied
Mrs. Russell — which was true, for Justin had
filched a quantity of almonds..

The father finding his little daughter alone
in her nursery took her aside into a corner.

"Marian, can you keep a secret?" he
asked in a low voice.

The small girl lifted her solemn gaze
to his face. ** Not from Justin," she' an-
swered.

" Why not from Justin? "

" Because he worries me till he knows."

" Well, he won't worry you this time; he
won't know that there is a secret; nor your
mother." Whereupon he crept with the child
to another well-known physician in Harley
Street, and asked, point blank, what was
wrong. " Constitutional debility," said the
doctor, " increased by want of proper care.
The child has been completely neglected."
He was angry. " Feed her up — half a dozen
eggs a day " (he was a feeding doctor) " and
a quart of milk. Your little daughter's con-
dition, sir, is exceedingly critical. Take her

MRS. RUSSELL. 41

to some bracing climate. The Riviera isn't
bracing. Good-day."

That evening Algernon told his wife what
he had done. She was deeply hurt. *' You
can not trust me, then," she said, " with my
own children? One would think I was a bru-
tal step-mother! Marian has always been al-
lowed to eat as much as she chose. There is
nothing so hurtful as habitual overloading.
My mother always used to say, * Children's
stomachs are like dogs', they warn them when
to leave off.' "

" But, at any rate, we can not go to the
Riviera!"

" We must go, then," she sighed heavily,
" to some other part of it. Let us ask some
third man."

The third man (who received a commis-
sion) recommended the dust clouds of Egypt.
So they crossed to Paris, and, much against
Mrs. Russell's will, saw a French celebrity,
who, for reasons of his own, sent them to
Grasse.

The evening before they started Russell,
having found Marian in tears, solicited an in-
terview with Justin.

" It is very unfair to you, I know," said

the father, exceedingly nervous, " because

these things should be part of a system, but I

am going to give you a thrashing. I would

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

much rather promise it you for the next time,
but I have done that before and know it would
be useless. It is much better that you should
know you will get another like it each time
your little sister utters a word of complaint."

Thereupon the thrashing was adminis-
tered. It was not a very bad one, but it fell
upon Justin as a tiger might fall upon an old
lady at a suburban tea-party. Mrs. Russell
sent in her resignation as a member of the
council of the Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Children. " I am not worthy,"
she said.

But when she returned from the Riviera
two months later, she took up work with re-
doubled energy among the little children of
her parish, and founded, with her husband's
fullest approval, a memorial cot at the Chil-
dren's Hospital. For there were only three
members now in the little family. Marian,
swept down by a pestilential fever, slept in the
cemetery of Cannes on the height that seemed
so near heaven. " Closer, father! " she had
said, just before she died. Russell had or-
dered her words to be placed on her grave —
nothing more — under her name and age.

There had almost been a dispute between
the parents, so eagerly did Mrs. Russell insist
on the addition of a text. She was obliged
to be content with a couple of sacred em-

MRS. RUSSELL.

blems, thereby somewhat spiritualizing the
words.

But when they stood, on their return, in
the empty nursery she flung herself weeping
into her husband's arms: " Henceforth I dedi-
cate my life," she cried, " to children and
girls! " They kissed each other, and were
sorry for many things in the past and in the
future.

There is much to be done for children and
girls. Few people look after their own prog-
eny, and they who do so mostly do it wrong.
It is a strange thing to consider, but no labour
in all this laborious world is done more vi-
cariously than education. We are all busy
improving each other. The Sunday-school
flourished in the mews behind Mrs. Russell's
house. Justin still had a class.

And the lady smothered the wound in her
heart beneath flowers of multifarious charity.
Her name was prominent in the prospec-
tuses of those model dairy companies which
seek to make the milk of human kindness flow
down our dirty streets. She was no philan-
thropy faddist. On the Home for Aged Cats
and the Cab-horses' Day in the Country she
turned the broad back of her resolute scorn.
What her brain bade her heart to do she did
unrestrictedly. And the months glided on in
the Mayfair house. Her excellent cook, who

44 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

had been with her many years, and knew all
the ways of the family, fell ill and died; the new
one proved incompetent; there came a period
of change and worry and discomfort. Mrs.
Russell had numerous meetings to attend and
endless parties to go to. Justin grew daily
more troublesome. He practised to perfec-
tion his two methods of persuasion — slow
pulling and sudden yells. His father, since
Marian's death, had set himself to ignore Jus-
tin as much as was feasible between periods
of acute anxiety about the boy's health or dull
dread of his impossible future. Day after day
the house lay pretty well desolate; in the
schoolroom Justin sat convincing his not in-
convincible tutor that arduous studies are in-
compatible with delicate health.

On the evening of the 17th of December,
1893 — what does the exact date matter?
Well, there's no reason for not putting it in
— on the evening of this 17th of December
Mrs. Russell came home tired from a long
afternoon's work. She had attended, as treas-
urer, a long meeting of the Council of the
Guild of St. Mary of Magdala. She had de-
voted her usual energy to the proceedings, but
really she was sick of the maudlin sympathy
shown by some of the ladies and the callous
trickery so common among the girls. She
had spoken her mind about the outcasts of

MRS. RUSSELL.

society, the harsh mind of a respectable ma-
tron who is cold as snow. And she had been
still more emphatic as regards the responsi-
bility of educated women. " The influence of
each of us in the home," she had said, *' should
make the whole problem impossible." " In-
deed, yes," had said the presiding bishop.
** Pray, madam, what age are your sons? " had
questioned one timid lady, too faintly for Mrs.
Russell to hear.

" Dining at home? " exclaimed Russell, as
he met his wife on the stairs.

" Yes, why not? To hear you, one would
think I was never at home! " she replied with
annoyance.

He did not answer. " Perhaps you," she
said, " have some more agreeable engage-
ment? "

" More agreeable? " he answered. " No."

She glanced quickly at him; she thought
he looked wretched. With swift woman's
pity she set herself to make atonement. They
had quite a pleasant little dinner, with bright
laughter over recollections of by-gone days.
Somehow they got talking about their court-
ship. When they went up to the drawing-
room he kissed her on the back of her
neck.

" There is a person waiting to speak to
you, madam," said the butler, in tones whose

46 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

dignified disapproval had grown mellowed by
repetition.

" Very well, Dumster, I shall be down in
a minute." She turned to her husband.
" Algy, this evening we must keep all to our-
selves."

" I fear I have an engagement. I have
promised "

She put her arm round his neck. " Not
this evening," she said; " for once in a way let
us forget the other people! You must see
whether you can still sing me the songs you
.used to sing in — those days. * Oh, meet me
in the lane ' — do you remember? "

" * When the clock strikes nine.* Of
course I remember; but there wasn't any lane
to meet in. Dear me, I have no idea where
the music is."

" Hunt it up, while I run down for a min-
ute." She found a servant in the hall with a
note and a verbal message: " I was to ask
madam whether I could accompany you,"
said the man. ** The girl of whom I spoke
to you sends me word she is dying," said the
note. " Could you perhaps manage to go to
her? I have a dance to-night. S. Gawtry."
There was a postscript : " Piccaninny is doing
splendidly. Two thousand more bottles or-
dered last week."

" Whistle for a cab," said Mrs. Russell to

MRS. RUSSELL. 47

Dumster. " Tell your master I shall not be
gone half an hour." She gave the driver an
address in a by-street, barely a mile distant.
Thither she drove, in a great fur mantle over
her evening dress, with Lady Gawtry's pow-
dered footman on the box.

" This is the number," she said, peering
at a card. It was Lady Gawtry's beautiful
card with the countess's coronet I

The powdered footman stood impassive.
" This is No. 14, wot yer told me to drive to,
my lady," said the cabman. Mrs. Russell got
out and inquired for Miss de Lacey.

•* Walk up, by all means," said the seryant
girl. " Second door to the left. Do you want
me to show you up? "

" Thank you, no; I prefer to find my own
way. Is the doctor upstairs? " inquired Mrs.
Russell, determined to stand no nonsense
from these impertinent girls. The girl burst
out laughing. ** I should think he was," she
made answer. " Been there for an hour. Are
you jealous of the doctor, too? " Without
another word Mrs. Russell, much disgusted,
sailed up the staircase. There was a sound of
great merriment in the front room of the first
floor occupied by the invalid. Mrs. Russell
stopped aghast. Delirium? Then she pushed
open the door and walked in.

The sick-room presented an extraordinary

48 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

spectacle. It was full of lights, lamps and
candles — too glaring — about a field of white
tablecloth, brilliant with champagne and flow-
ers. Several gaudy young ladies and gorgeous
young gentlemen were grouped about the
table, one side of which was pushed up against
a pink satin bedstead whereon reclined, in a
splendid lace dressing-gown, the invalid. A
loud shout of laughter went up on all sides.

" Welcome, my lady! " cried the beautiful
occupant of the bed. " Ladies and gentle-
men, may I introduce you to Lady Somebody,
a very particular friend of mine! "

Fresh laughter greeted the sally which
many of those present took for a piece of Lot-
tie's exquisite wit. A young fellow, who had
had too much wine himself, offered Mrs. Rus-
sell a big bumper of what he called " the
briny."

" Come, old g^rl," he said, holding out the
sparkling goblet ; " come, old g^rl, have a
drink of the briny! "

Mrs. Russell stood in the doorway, facing
them all.

" You hussy," she said, " you sent to say
you were dying! "

" So I was, this afternoon, for a sight of
my Reggie " — she stretched a fondling arm
to an inane creature beside her; the lace
sleeve fell away — " but he came back this

MRS. RUSSELL.

evening from Paris — naughty Paris! — and
now I'm quite well."

" Then don't sneeze over tne any-
more!" exclaimed Reggie. She hit him a
hard tap on the hollow sounding skull.
Another young man, who had duly real-
ized Mrs. Russell's position, sprang to his
feet.

" Look here, Lottie," he stuttered, " I call
this a beastly shame! " Mrs. Russell turned
quickly upon him. ** You use the right word,
sir," she said, and amid the consternation
caused by her suddenness she sailed out with
all the honours of war.

Downstairs in the passage the landlady
met her. " She's a bad lot up yonder," said
the landlady, with a jerk of the thumb; *' I
have given her notice to go." Mrs. Russell,
too much ruffled to reply, moved on towards
the door.

" But there's a poor creature lives oppo-
site," said the landlady, following; " a very
different sort, that's not long for this world.
If you were to go and see her, as you are here,
who knows but you might do a power of
good, my lady! It's at No. 21, a few doors
farther up."

Nothing deterred — rather eager to wipe
out the stain on her cheeks — Mrs. Russell
walked straight across and found No. 21,

50 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

The cab lumbered after her, accompanied by
the supercilious Jeames.

" There is an invalid in this house," she
said boldly. ** Ask whether a lady could see
her for a moment ; a friend sent by her friend
who lives opposite." The maid came back
almost immediately and asked her to walk up.
In a wide drawing-room, by a cheerful fire
and the light of a deeply shaded lamp, a wom-
an lay on a couch; a refined-looking woman,
almost distinguished, with a white transpar-
ent countenance and great coils of chestnut
hair.

" I did not know I was so rich in friends,"
said the invalid in a low voice. " But some-
times one feels so dull an enemy would not be
unwelcome."

" I do not come as an enemy. Heaven
knows," Mrs. Russell said almost timidly. " I
heard that you were unwell; I thought per-
haps there might be something I could do for
you."

" Thanks; I need nothing but health, and
that no one can give me. Even that," she
continued, almost in a whisper, " I should
hardly desire for myself — but for him."

" For your husband? " said Mrs. Russell,
bold once more.

The other woman fixed her great eyes on
her visitor. " No," she said, and added,

MRS. RUSSELL. 51

"pray sit down for a moment, if you wish.
You look hot."

Mrs. Russell sank into an armchair.
" You are very ill/' she said. " You have
found, I fear, that the way of transgressors is
hard."

"Ahl" said the woman on the couch,
" you are one of those who preach for pleas-
ure? Of course I understood that." She sat
up slightly. " There can be no harm in that,"
she said; "indeed, it is eminently deserving
of respect. Why do you not throw back your
mantle? That is a very handsome mantle;
but, pardon me, I do not admire the shade of
your dress."

" You are dangerously ill," replied Mrs.
Russell; " you say that you know yourself to
be dying. Have you no conception of your
sin? "

The other woman again straightened her-
self with an effort, and threw such strength
as she could into her exhausted voice: " You
are serious!" she said. *' Well, let us talk
seriously. Sin? No; to tell the honest truth,
I have no conception of my sin. Thank you
for not shuddering. I should rather like to
tell you about it; it is very interesting to me,
meeting one who thinks like you. Oh! I
know your view exactly, of course. It would
be interesting for me to give you mine." She

52 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

coughed. " Can I offer you anything? " she
said — " a cup of tea? "

" No, thank you/* answered Mrs. Russell,
rigid in her chair.

" I am dying, as you say. It is a very
strange, solemn thing to knozu " — she spoke
musingly, studying her hands — " to know
about yourself, not other people. I am very,
very sorry for Jiim,^'

Mrs. Russell waited in silence. Suddenly
the other looked up. " I am all he has," she
said. ** You can not think how strangely
these things work around. You do not know
he is a married man. There, you see, I have
told you. And I — I am not perhaps quite
what you think; I don't mean not so bad, but
different. I was very lonely — a music teacher
— I think I felt even more lonely than poor.
And he was very lonely also. He has a wife
who — ^you will forgive my saying it — who
takes an interest in all sorts of things, very
good things — works, you know, like yours —
all sorts of things from morning to night.
And so she neglected her home."

" It was not by any means necessary," in-
terposed Mrs. Russell with asperity, " that
she should have neglected her home."

" Perhaps not, but she did. The poor fel-
low used to come home from his office of
evenings and find that his wife was out at-

MRS. RUSSELL.

tending charity meetings. She would stop
out all the time — dine out — go to all sorts of
places, like you, I suppose! "

Suddenly Mrs. Russell thought of her hus-
band waiting at home.

" And he had a dreadful boy, enough to
make any father miserable — a boy that's
growing up all wrong. When we first met,
one night at Olympia, he was so alone — so
utterly alone — his little daughter had died a
few months before — we got to talking some-
how. * IVexiowhere to go to,' he said. / had
nowhere to go to but my room. And so grad-
ually it all worked around. He used to like
spending his evenings with me; I used to play
to him. I — I play to him, and we talk of all
the things his wife has never cared about — the
new books and the picture galleries; we have
all our tastes in common. Gradually he has
told me all his difficulties — all about the boy,
for instance, whom his wife's mad indulgence
has ruined." Her voice was growing very
tired; she leaned back. " Now I wonder,"
she said faintly, closing her eyes, " has it
been so very wicked? Of course you think
so. But, I wonder — I often wonder — does
God? "

Mrs. Russell, her cheeks aflame, sat star-
ing at the floor immovably.

" And now I am dying. The people who

54 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

see me daily do not seem to notice. I haven't
ventured to tell Algy."

At a bound the woman in the chair rose
to her feet. " The portrait yonder in the
darkness," she said hoarsely, " whose is it? "

The invalid, still lying back, half turned
her head. But Mrs. Russell had already flung
herself across the room. She thrust the photo
full under the lamp.

" This man," she said, striking her hand on

the upturned cardboard face, " this man^ *'

her voice broke away in sobs.

The other woman, gathering her strength,
slid her feet from the couch. ** Is it possible,"
she said, " you know him? "

" My God, what has brought me here to-
night!" cried Mrs. Russell, and dropped her
face on her hands.

The sick woman rose, tall and thin.

** You are his wife! " she said. *' His wife!
God forgive me if I have done him hurt ! "
Then her voice changed to a cry of anxiety.
" It is time for his coming," she cried; " nine
o'clock! He may be here at any moment!
He comes between nine and ten. You must
go — you must go at once! " — she took a step
forward — " at once! You have made him suf-
fer enough already! He must never know
that you know!" She caught hold of her
visitor's arm, and almost pushed her toward

MRS. RUSSELL. 55

the door. " Do you understand me? As one
woman to another, I tell you " — there flashed
command through her tone — ** yes, it is / who
tell you. You have no right to act otherwise.
He must never — no never — dream that you
know! "

Mrs. Russell hurried down the stairs in
dread and horror; she sank back, with a gasp,
into the darkest recess of her cab. " Home! "
she said, " home! "

There was fury in her heart, and rebellion
and misery; she was bitterly angry with her
husband; she was mournfully angry with her-
self. And the desire filled her heart to face
him — to face him down in hot accusation of
his perfidy, his disloyalty to herself and her
child. She! — perhaps she had not acted wise-
ly, led away by her eager pity of the sinful
and the suflfering; but her error had at least
been that of a generous nature: her expiation
would be generous too. She would abandon
a part — she would abandon the whole of her
mission work — alas, one labourer less amid
the whitening harvests! — she would dedicate
her evenings to her husband, winning him
from these creatures — oh, bitter shame! — she
would take up her music again, as a girl she
had played a little Mendelssohn; she would
read not only, as hitherto, The Review of Re-
views, but also The Nineteenth Century.

56 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

Perhaps in time of his own accord he would
confess his sin. She shuddered as she thought
of the shadow dark between them. And the
words of the dying woman struck her heart
with repeated blows : " You have caused him
to suffer enough already. He must never
know you know."

Gradually, as she calmed down, the help-
lessness of the whole thing settled upon her.
The conciliation, which, in view of her rival's
approaching end, had seemed an achievable
solution became an inevitable compromise,
nothing more. Their present situation was
not the result of a retrievable act, but of a
remorseless development. This woman would
soon die, so be it. But that would not cause
husband and wife to sympathize, whose ideas
of life, of duty, whose estimate even of their
only child, so inevitably fell apart.

When she reached the house it was with
the hope that he would not be waiting for
her. A moment later she stood in the de-
serted drawing-room.

" Master left a message," said Dumster,
" that he would not be in before eleven,
ma'am."

She drew a chair close to the fire, shiver-
ing, and took up the book he had left open
and began to read. She read all the evening,
thinking her thoughts in a circle meanwhile.

MRS. RUSSELL. 57

When he came home, late, he found her
thus. He sat down in silence at the far end
of the room.

" This is an interesting book," she said,
without looking up.

" Do you think so? " he answered.

The work was the fashionable psychologi-
cal romance of the hour; she could not have
cared for a word of it.

A break in his tones caused her to look
up; she glanced at him keenly. And she saw
in his eyes that the sick woman had told him
she was dying, and had sent him back to his
wife. She rose and went toward him.

" Algernon," she said, " won't you sing
* Oh! meet me in the lane ' for me to-night? "

" What, at this time of day? Why, it's
nearly twelve. I waited more than an hour
for you! "

" I was unavoidably delayed. Well, then,
before we go to bed read me a few pages of
something, won't you? That article I heard
you speaking about, Sodoma's pictures at
Siena? "

" Oh, it's far too late," he said. " Besides,
you wouldn't care twopence. I'm dead tired.
I'm going to bed."

She stood silent. He got up. " Good-
night," he said.

'* Good-night."
5

58 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

At the door he paused: "Are you com-
ing, too? "

" Not just yet. Good-night."

" Good-night."

When the door had closed upon him she
sat down to her writing table and penned
various notes to various secretaries. After
that she lay back for a long time, with the
envelopes spread out before her, gazing at
them, thinking. At length she gathered the
whole pile together in both hands, and with a
sigh which was part regretful, part consola-
tory, she flung them all upon the dying fire.

PRINCESSE !

In a quiet Swiss village, away from the
snow summits and gorges, among green
slopes and greener pastures, with vineyards in
the distance and cowbells in the foreground,
far up the white country road, as you turn
from the blue expanse of Lake Leman and
drive inland till the rough mountains of Savoy
have sunk from the* vision, and nothing re-
mains around you but gentleness and fruit-
fulness and sleepiness and sweet abundance
of rural rest. In the summer sunshine and
vast serenity of sky, among the steady forests
and dried-up river beds, where the drowsy
butterflies lie still within the sleeping flowers
at midday, and the cicadas have curled their
tails into repose upon the stolid stones.

Down in a sleepy hollow there lies a sleepy
house — a Swiss country house of the old-fash-
ioned type, roomy but nowise imposing,
white and green to look at, roughly kept, and
somewhat out of repair.

Les Berguettes is the Sausserons* place

6o SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

near Cugny; and the Sausserons — as every-
body in French Switzerland knows, and no-
body outside it — are a highly respectable fam-
ily of Lausanne. Grandfather Sausseron was
quite a personage in his day (i 802-1 867), an
eminent chemist who discovered a cheap
method of damaskeening various metals, and
thus laid the foundation of the fortune of the
house. Furthermore, he was a member of the
Cantonal Council, and a street in the city is
called after his name. Bernard Sausseron, his
son, enlarged the business in every way, caus-
ing it to prosper mightily. He became so rich
that there was much talk of his moving across
the lake to Evian to avoid the exorbitant
taxes of the canton of Vaud. But he moved
away still farther, to a land whither no earthly
tax-gatherer can pursue us, and his estate de-
volved to his two married sons, his married
daughter Marie, and his unmarried daughter
Claire.

No, that is incorrect. The younger son,
Jules, was of course not married at the time
of his father's death. He married after Claire
even, and the story of his wooing, a nine days'
scandal at the time, would be well worth tell-
ing of itself. But that would be the story of
a man's wickedness, and not of a woman's
folly.

The elder sister, Marie, had married first.

PRINCESSE ! 6l

married her cousin Bertuchot; when her fa-
ther died she was already the mother of sev-
eral chubby children. For Bertuchot was
chubby, jojly, good-natured, content to be-
long to the Sausserons and take part in the
business. The tnan of the family was Armand,
the eldest — hard-headed, hard-workings hard-
hearted, hard-pressed. The soul of the united
factories, the will of the various households,
the brain and the hand of it. A serious, sim-
ple man, living almost austerely, content to
know that others knew his unshown wealth.
His, and that of the others, for he held it
all in his own care. None of them would have
ventured to ask him for any accounts. He
paid to the Bertuchots a sum of forty thou-
sand francs a year in four instalments; to Jules
he paid fifteen thousand, and to Claire he paid
five. For his own household he never spent
more than thirty. Old Sausseron was worth
at the time of his death, it is creditably re-
ported^ about ten million francs. Armand
paid taxes on that amount, and more. Claire,
the unmarried daughter, went to live with Ar-
mand when her father died — the mother had
been buried and forgotten many years. Claire
was nineteen at the time of the old man's
death, a tall rather striking girl with a mass
of fair hair and magnificent black eyes. Her
father had refused two offers of marriage

62 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

without consulting her. One was from an old
friend of his own, whom Claire would never
have accepted; but she nearly cried her eyes
dim over the other, which came from her
drawing master, a young Italian, rendered
bold by his perception of how deeply she was
in love with him.

She took up her abode with her masterful
brother and his insignificant wife. When the
brother bullied her — which happened rarely,
for his influence over them all was chiefly
tacit — she went to stay during several weeks
with her sister Bertuchot, and, in any case,
the whole family spent a great part of the
summer together at Les Berguettes. Jules
would go off to his races and other similar
amusements; the married women would shop
and pet their children; nobody minded much
what the others did, as long as, when they
met from time to time, they were not in each
other's way.

Claire had amusements enough, or rather
let us call them distractions. She was ex-
ceedingly gifted, and she made frequent use
of all her talents. Her playing and singing
were beyond the average of amateurs — that is
not saying much — of accomplished amateurs.
She painted in water colours better than she
sang or played. Her education had been all
that the schools of her native city, joined with

PRINCESSE ! 63

natural intelligence, could make it. In fact,
her old father used to say the girl knows every
possible thing a woman ought to know and
every possible thing she needn't. She was
well read in all the lighter literatures, and
about things in general she could talk with
epigrammatic brightness. For science she
cared nothing; the dry learning of her school-
days time had gently washed overboard. In
one word: a pleasant, stylish, witty girl, better
informed and more truly accomplished than
most.

Why all this about Claire? Because it is
in itself the story. It explains the story's end.

Claire is the story. An epic in the early
stately repose of her wealthy childhood; a
lyric with the drawing master; a long elegy
at Les Berguettes — and at the close a tragi-
comedy; but that is too fast!

Les Berguettes was her favourite resort.
She had got tired of Lausanne society, which
she scornfully termed provincial! She was
sick, she said, of dining between cousins, and
before her courteous indifference the suitors
shrank away. She was an heiress; she sent
for frocks from Paris. People began to speak
of her, especially mammas, with a certain as-
perity.

On a beautiful August evening three
young fellows, lazily floating in a boat along

64 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

the shore of Ouchy, lay discussing, with lan-
guid interest, Claire Sausseron. The purple
shadows swept in heavy folds across the dark
blue water. A light caught here and there,
amid gathering darkness, the distant city
spires.

" You see, she's our biggest match," said
Ernest Bertuchot, from Lausanne, to his
cousins Pierre and Jacques de Brissay, from
Paris.

" That in itself, of course, is interesting,"
replied Pierre de Brissay. " She's a cousin of
' yours 1 "

" A sort of cousin, and her sister married
my cousin George."

" In fact you are all cousins. Why not?
I suppose it can do no harm. What age is
this young lady? "

" About twenty-five, I suppose."

" Twenty-five 1 My dear Ernest, she must
either be a hunchback or not as rich as you
say."

" She has a tongue that can say ' no,' "
replied Ernest sullenly.

" You speak with personal animus! "

" Come, that's not fair," interposed
Jacques from the bow.

" And a fortune of two or three millions.'^

Pierre sat up. " A fortune of two or three
millions," he replied. "Phew! I'll try."

PRINCESSE ! 65

Ernest laughed scornfully.

" She is bored by all you Swiss cousins,"
continued Pierre. " Let us see what she will
say to a Parisian, a new element — Monsieur
de Brissay!" And he twisted up his mus-
tache With a little chirrup of amused content.
Pooh!" replied Ernest, annoyed.
Once before, years ago, a foreigner tried
his luck — an Italian, her drawing master.
That time she was smitten. Had she taken
any foreigner, she, with her love of art, would
have taken him." He spoke with great de-
cision, anxious to prove and believe what
he said.

** I am not a drawing master," answered
Pierre.

In the twilight Jacques bent forward. His
was a clear-cut poet's face and shapely head.
" Ah," he said, " she loved her drawing mas-
ter, this wealthy bourgeois beauty! The talk
is not so dull as I thought ! "

"Sausseron!" reflected Pierre aloud;
" there is Jules Sausseron, whom one meets
in all sorts of shady places. Jacques, you
must have met Sausseron? "

No," replied his brother curtly.
He is Claire's younger brother. He is
not worth much," acknowledged Ernest.

" Tiens! you have young men here who
are not all praiseworthy? This Jules is her

66 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

brother — ^how lucky! — if he be here in Lau-
sanne I will get him to present me at once."

" He is here, I know, for a day or two.
He is starting on a journey. We shall find
him at the club."

They rowed leisurely to land and took
the tram to Lausanne. As Ernest had
prophesied, they found Jules at the club, play-
ing billiards with a friend, an Italian, whose
name the young men just caught — Pagliar-
dini.

" We are going off together to Aix les
Bains," said Jules, " to try our luck at the
Casino des Fleurs. I am sorry I can not show
you any hospitality, but I will give you a
letter of introduction to my brother at Les
Berguettes."

The two Parisians walked to the Hotel
Gibbon in the moonlight before they sepa-
rated for the night ; Pierre stood silent a few
moments looking at the letter which lay on
his open palm.

" Monsieur Sausseron," he said. " It is
not a pretty name. De Brissay is prettier."

" The Italian's name," replied Jacques, by
his open bedroom window; '* that was ugly.
Pagliardini! Fie! "

" A good name is worth a great deal in
the contest," said Pierre. " She will approve
the * de ' and the Parisian."

PRINCESSE I 67

" And the Pierre."

" Let the winner laugh last. But you,
what will you do while I am away in the coun-
try? Stay here and row? '*

Jacques turned around and very deliber-
ately answered, " I shall go too."

" Oh, no! thank you. You would be most
genant.*'

" Listen: I made my plan. I shall not go
with you. Present yourself as you are. Two
days later I shall appear in the village as a
painter, an artist, under any name you like.
You will know me slightly — ^in — Paris — no
more. I will be poor (Heaven knows that is
true enough) — nothing but an artist."

" Et aprh? "

" We will both try for the heiress, you as
Pierre de Brissay, I as "

"Jeremie Brioche!"

" So be it. See, that is only fair. I wish
you luck."

" Well, as you like. But very few heiresses
marry artists."

" That is true, considering how many fall
in love with drawing masters. You are
damping."

" Never mind. If neither of us succeeds,
there will only be an amusing experience the
more in our lives and two more triumphs in
hers."

68 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

Upon this philosophic reflection Pierre
went off to sleep soundly. Jacques's unfor-
tunate temperament forced him to look out
of window and murmur :

" Ainsi pousses toujours vers de nouveaux
rivages! '*

For shame, Jacques! Almost any kind of
dream would have been more original.

The next morning saw Pierre at Les Ber-
guettes, where, as cousin to the Bertuchots,
he received a kindly welcome from a numer-
ous and kindly family. Mademoiselle Claire
took to him at once, for he brought her the
perfume of Paris, dreamed-of, delicious, slight-
ly intoxicating. The babble of the boulevards
bubbled from his lips, much brighter and
more effervescent than when bottled for ex-
portation in the columns of her dearly loved
Figaro. He was surprised to find her so well
informed, so well read, so " unprovincially
provincial," as he put it. She never tired of
asking him about all that wondrous world,
which, unlike less artificial lights, shines
brightest from a distance. They would drop
behind or stroll ahead when the others walked
about the woods or toward the village. It
was a quiet life. Monsieur de Brissay, it was
understood, would soon undertake some big
excursions.

Meanwhile Monsieur de Brissay continued

PRINCESSE ! 69

to charm the heiress. He made good prog-
ress during his two days' start. And on the
second evening — a beautiful evening, all vio-
let haze, and green slopes, and returning cow-
bells — he met the other gentleman from Paris
as Claire and he, a little beyond the others,
were inspecting a pig-sty near the trellised
village inn.

" Yes," said Claire, " the peasants here
are dirty. They are intelligent and good-
hearted, but they are undeniably dirty.'*

" All peasants are," replied Pierre with
lofty superiority.

A gentleman, most picturesquely arrayed,
strolled out of the inn and came toward
them. As he passed, Pierre, in sudden awk-
wardness, looked away. The stranger imme-
diately turned back, came toward them again,
took off his hat, stopped.

TienSy it is thou!" exclaimed Pierre.
Forgive me, mademoiselle, a friend from the
City of Light, as Hugo calls her. Who would
have thought to find thee here? "

" I return the compliment," replied
Jacques.

" Oh, I — I always travel! But I thought
you stopped at home and worked! "

Jacques cast an angry glance at his broth-
er. " My occupation," he answered sharply,
" requires much travelling. With you, I sup-

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

pose, much travelling must do for an occupa-
tion. Present me to mademoiselle! "

" Permit, Mademoiselle Sausseron, that I
present Monsieur Jeremie Brioche."

But at that moment stout Madame Ber-
tuchot and her chubby children came around
the corner of the pig-sty, and the presenta-
tion had to be gone through again.

" You are staying at the inn? " said come-
ly Madame Bertuchot. " It is astonishing
how the beauties of our quiet valley are be-
ginning to attract attention! You must
come back with us to supper. Any friend
of Monsieur de Brissay would be wel-

come."

Pierre flung Jacques a look of confident
triumph.

" But you must not send us too many
tourists," said Madame Bertuchot, as she
shufHed along, holding a boy by each hand.
" You gentlemen from Paris must not betray
our secret. For instance, we don't want a lot
of artists."

"I adore artists!" cried Claire, quickly
foreseeing her sister's blunder.

" And I am an artist," said Jacques almost
simultaneously.

A moment followed of most awkward
pause, in which Claire pitilessly dropped be-
hind with her companion.

PRINCESSE !

" What did you say his name was? " asked
Claire.

" Jeremie Brioche."

She laughed. "It is impossible!" she
said. " What a trial for an artist ! How could
he have had the courage to become one with a
name like that? "

" He bravely surmounted the difficulty.
He is very brave."

" He is very handsome. But he will never
find a wife, poor man! What woman would
consent to become Madame Brioche! "

" Well, his mother did," replied Pierre,
feeling mean. " But I am glad to find you
agree with me: I always say there is much in
a pretty name. Yours is a lovely one."

"Sausseron?"

He blushed crimson. " I was thinking of
Claire."

" I do not know. After all, the beauty of
a name lies in its intrinsic value. No one, for
instance, would mind *Le Comte de Brioche.'"

"Ah! See there the republican, the
Swiss!"

" I was merely stating a fact from a cer-
tain point of view," she replied uncomfort-
ably.

" Shall we catch up to the others? My
brother Armand would not like me to lag be-
hind in the dusk."

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" You are very much afraid of your big
brother Armand? "

She threw up her proud little head. " I
am afraid of nobody," she said, " but of vex-
ing any one I Shall we — Elise, are you
there? " He followed her, fearing that he
had not for the moment been so successful as
heretofore. At table he was annoyed to find
how much notice she took of the artist: as
a matter of fact she was anxious to atone for
her sister's mistake. Nobody in the family
except Claire knew anything of modern ar-
tistic developments. The subjects which in-
terested Armand in his rare leisure moments
were chiefly economical, political, practical;
he discovered at once if you knew anything
about them and never worried vou twice. He
had immediately abandoned the gay gentle-
men from Paris. As for Bertuchot, his hob-
bies were scientific, and the literature he pre-
ferred was the algebraic unravelment of im-
aginary crime.

" Oh, yes! art, art! " sighed Madame Ber-
tuchot unblushingly. "Ah! monsieur, do
you admire Calame? See, there is the true
painter of nature! Bertuchot, we should buy
a Calame! "

" You can have them in first-rate engrav-
ings," put in Armand. " I will give you one
if you like for your birthday,"

PRINCESSE ! 73

The two brothers de Brissay exchanged
glances, and the many oughts that make up
" ten million " went rolling across their men-
tal sight.

Late that night they compared notes, not
without recrimination.

"You make me absurd!" Jacques said
hotly, " with your ridiculous * Jeremie.' "

" It goes well with the markings of your
linen," retorted Pierre coolly; " prophesy my
downfall, O prophet! The girl is handsome
and charming. Who of ufs, I wonder, will be
rolling in wealth this day six months? "

" I, let us hope," replied Jacques; " I
should sooner share with you."

" She certainly said you were handsome."

"Ah!" Jacques tossed back his long,
black locks.

" But she declared her firm conviction
that you will never find a wife."

" Ha? " Jacques opened his big black
eyes.

Because of your name, Brioche."
I was a fool to let you make a fool of
me. But it is not Brioche will propose to
her."

" Oh, come! we have not got to proposing

yet. She is blinded by the light of Paris!

You will see, she may adore artists, but she

will marry a man for his * chic' "
6

74 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" She will choose," replied Jacques a lit-
tle theatrically, " between Bohemia and the
boulevard I "

Whereupon the two brothers, who had
been glaring across the table, laughingly
shook hands and wished each other good-
night.

The first thing Jacques did next morning
was to seek out a convenient and conspicuous
spot from which to paint the valley. The best
spot he discovered gave almost undue promi-
nence to the Sausserons' house, but that could
not be helped. He arranged himself before
his easel, an attractive figure in his striped
flannels, and settled to his work. He really
was a very good amateur painter in the first
rank of the dilettante exhibitors, everlastingly
incapable of plunging down to the foot of the
mountain and plodding up the right side. So,
also, he could write society verses which
everybody in society admired.

They are really very nice fellows, the
brothers de Brissay, as all of us are aware,
who have known them all our lives. Of
course Jacques is preferable to Pierre, who is
a little too self-confident and bombastic. The
episode of the hunt for the heiress, which
was probably half a joke and half a bit of
cheerful impertinence, shows them — shows
them up perhaps, a little — ^just as they are.

PRINCESSE !

There is no lighter, happier, jollier man than
Pierre, who never does anything. There is
no kinder man than Jacques, who is always
hard at work on trifles — usually for the benefit
of somebody else. It is true, as he said, that
wealth in his hands was a blessing to hun-
dreds. Such men die poor. You know of
an exception? So do I.

As he worked he sang a song of his own
inditing, and Mademoiselle Claire, walking in
the dewy garden, paused to listen.

" My heart within the prison sings
Only of wings ! "

Mademoiselle looked over the hedge.
" That is very pretty," she said. " But, sure-
ly, there is more? "

He turned to the big straw hat within the
crimson parasol. " Ah! well, it is enough," he
answered. " But yes, there is more — thir-
teen stanzas. How many would you like to
hear? "

What! you know them all?"
They are my own."

Claire flushed with pleasure. She had
never before come face to face with a poet !

" Sing them to me — all! " she said with a
child's eagerness of command.

He laughed, and, continuing to sketch,
solemnly sang four.

76 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" That is all the song," he explained.
" The rest is only printed in the poem."

" Your poems are printed! " she cried;
then, ashamed of her puerility, " I mean, I
could have the volume? Where? I should
like to get it. Who are the publishers? "

" I will send you a copy with pleasure."

" You have published under your own
name. Monsieur Brioche? "

Here was a dilemma. " Oh, no! " he stam-
mered.

" I thought I had not seen it. What name
did you take? "

" ApoUon de Helicon-Pamasse," he re-
plied furiously.

"Ah, well! that is striking. You are
taking that background wrong. Monsieur
Brioche. The slope is too abrupt."

" Thank you," he answered with some ir-
ritation; then a sudden brightening flowed
across his face. " You paint, too! " he said;
" I had forgotten."

"Forgotten?"

" Yes; one — one has heard of you in Paris.
We must have mutual friends."

" I know no one in Paris," she said, look-
ing pleased; " we have been brought up very
quietly, but one has connections of course,
like your friend de Brissay with the Bertu-
chots. Monsieur Brioche! "

PRINCESSE !

Mademoiselle ! " he said resignedly.
I should like to try my hand at setting
those beautiful words of yours to a prettier
tune. I do not care much for yours. I — I
wonder whether I could think of a better? "
She blushed again over the bold suggestion,
with downcast eyes, under her big hat and red
parasol, inexpressibly charming. The poet
was delighted. He had utterly forgotten the
millions. After that they got on most sympa-
thetically. Claire came around to the other
side of the hedge and freely criticised the
morning's work. And he wrote out his verses
for her with a brush dipped in blue on a scrap
of drawing paper. They both looked an-
noyed when Pierre came to call her away.

" The children are waiting," said Pierre.
" You remember, you promised to show me
the waterfall."

" I am ready," replied Claire. " Monsieur
Brioche, you must come up to the house this
evening and hear what I have made of your
song."

"Ah! he has already been treating you
to his songs," said Pierre contemptuously.
" Bon jour, leremie"

Jacques ground his teeth ever harder than
his colours. He could hear Pierre laughing
in the distance and the children calling Claire.

That evening she sang him his songs so

99
if

78 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

exquisitely, with such simple grace and feel-
ing, that he lost at least half his heart, and
openly made love to her.

"Well, yes; it is pretty," said Madame
Bertuchot, who knew nothing of the writer's
identity; " but really I am rather sick of hear-
ing it; you have sung nothing else all day.

" I was busy finding music for the words,
said Claire, annoyed.

" You could not speak them without do-
ing that," said Jacques.

After two days of this sort of thing, Pierre
felt that he must either act or retire from the
scene. He resolved to adopt the straight-
forward line. So he sought out Armand on
the latter's return from Lausanne one night,
and, truthfully expressing a great admiration
for Claire, courteously asked for permission
to court her.

Armand had listened to the end, a great
fold across his brow.

" You are, I presume, a Roman Catho-
lic? " he said.

" I am; but, of course "

Armand rose. " That will do, monsieur.
No further discussion of the matter is neces-
sary. My sister would never desire to marry
any one of a different religion, nor could we
allow her to do so."

" But I was told that her mother "

PRINCESSE !

" You were misinformed. My mother was
a convert from Roman Catholicism before she
married my father."

" But perhaps the young lady "

" Monsieur de Brissay, I must ask you to
discontinue your visits to my house."

" So it is simplest," reflected Armand, left
alone. " There are a dozen other objections,
but why think them out? "

The disappointed suitor soon found his
brother.

" Cease your efforts," he said, " or change
your religion. Paris vaut bien une messe.**

" No, by God! " said Jacques, with unex-
pected vehemence. He would say no more
on that or any other subject. He locked him-
self into his room and wrote verses all through
the night.

That same night Jules Sausseron, the
man of pleasure, the gambler, hung, in
company with his Italian friends, over a
balcony of the Casino des Fleurs, at Aix,
lazily watching the music, the flowers, and
the bright dresses in the softness of the moon-
lit heat.

" My dear Sandro, there is no denying it,"
Jules said carelessly. " I have no wish to
deny it. But also I have no wish to hear it
repeated. I owe you fifty-three thousand
francs."

So SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

"And fifty centimes," corrected the
Italian.

D the fifty centimes. What for? "

For the stamps I have twice given you
to write to your brother."

"Oh! well; it is no use writing to my
brother. In fact, I have not written; the let-
ters contained gossip to Claire."

" But, after all, your millions are your
own 1 "

Jules cast a quick side glance at the Ital-
ian. " Yes, at present," he said. " But Ar-
mand has them in his keeping. So much the
better perhaps."

" He will have to deduct," said the Italian,
playing with a cigarette, " fifty-three thou-
sand francs and fifty centimes."

A long silence followed. The band struck
up a waltz of Ivanovics.

" Come away to some quiet place," ex-
claimed Jules suddenly. " I want to talk
to you about something." They strolled
along a dimly lighted lane into deepening
quiet.

" Why don't you marry my sister Claire? "
said Jules.

" Dame, I do not know the young lady."

" She is charming, handsome, accom-
plished. I am fonder of her than of any one
on earth. She is twenty-five. Well, you are

PRINCESSEI 8 1

nearly forty. She would make just the sort
of wife you ought to have."

" But supposing she should refuse me? "
suggested the Italian, still with indifference.

" She would not refuse you. Parbleu, it
is not every one can make his wife * prin-

cesse.' "

" Granted. Still, there are difficulties.
For instance, I am a Roman Catholic."

" My mother was — once."

" Ah ! Well, of course a Princesse Pagliar-
dini would have to accept the religion of her
house."

" That, in itself, sounds delightful."

" Nor should I care to be placed under the
guardianship of your brother."

" Why not? You would have to ask him
for a very large annuity. Trust me, there is no
pleasanter, safer arrangement than that for
men like you and me. But I am going to
tell him he must double my allowance. I
want Claire's marriage to help me in that.
And — ^and — ^if you should marry Claire? "

" I will draw a line through the fifty-three
thousand francs."

" And the fifty centimes. Shall we start
to-morrow? I detest this place."

" Let us start to-morrow. But do not
begin detesting the places where you have
lost money. It is a dangerous habit."

82 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" My brother Jules is coming to-night
with a friend," said Claire to Jacques when
the telegram came. " I am glad that you will
meet my brother Jules."

" Yes? " replied Jacques, with a swift sense
of approaching complications; and then sud-
denly he caught hold of her hand, caught it
aside from the faults she was prettily point-
ing out in his landscape, and told her that he
loved her, had learned in those few days to
love her more — and oh, so differently! — more
than any other woman he had ever loved be-
fore, told her what his real name was and all
his foolish plan of wooing, told her everything
with burning words such as a woman loves to
gather to her beating heart.

At last she said trembling: " But my
brother would never give his consent."

" We must do without it," he answered.

She pondered this strange possibility for
a moment before she continued:

" All my money is in his hands."

The tears of spite rose into his eyes.

" It is asking too much of you," he cried,
" to bid you abandon the money. And yet —
and yet, Claire, we could be happy without
it. I could take you to Paris — I would
work. Claire, people can be happy without

money.

"Hush!' she exclaimed. "Some one is

FRINCESSE I

coming. You frighten me. You have
taken me unawares. I must have time to
reflect."

You will answer me! When?"
To-morrow. Not before to-morrow.
Do not make yourself illusions."

" You paint well, Monsieur Brioche," said
Madame Bertuchot, " but your style is not
the style of Calame."

"Why should it be!" demanded Claire,
with asperity.

Madame Bertuchot opened her mild blue
eyes. "Why," she asked. "Oh! because I
like it best. For me Monsieur Brioche is too
modern. I wonder who this friend of Jules
will prove to be? "

I do not care two sous," said Claire.
What an extraordinary expression! I
am always curious about new people. There
are so many different kinds."

Madame Bertuchot certainly felt curious
— felt a palpitating curiosity about the new
sort of person to whom she found herself in-
troduced that night.

" Prince Pagliardini! "

The whole bourgeois family stared open-
mouthed at this personage of exalted rank.
It can not be said that Sandro Pagliardini
took much pains to please them. Wit and
brightness were not in his line. Nor could he

84 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

Speak of art or of politics or of trade. In fact,
he spoke little, brushing up his heavy black
mustache and remarking that the wine was
good.

That evening Jules, anxious to avoid any
erroneous or unfavourable first impressions,
took his younger sister aside and frankly told
her that he had brought his friend, whom he
greatly respected, to see his sister, whom he
greatly loved, on the understanding that pos-
sible inclinations might lead to a marriage
between them — " my heart's desire," said
Jules. And he meant it. " Little sister, you
would be a princess," he said.

Claire's cheeks glowed. " He is a genuine
prince! " she said.

" His is one of the oldest families of Tus-
cany. At Geneva I bought an Almanach de
Gotha. See! " he took out the fat little red
volume and handed it to her.

" He does not seem a clever man," she fal-
tered. " I asked him about several things.
He seemed to know nothing."
He is very modest."
'And, a — little — ^wild — ^Jules — ^like you? "

" He is a man of the world, of course, not
a monk, but he is devoutly religious."

"Jules, what do you think of Monsieur
Brioche? "

" Monsieur Jeremie Brioche? A painter,

PRINCESSE ! 85

IS he not? Oh! I think he is just Jeremie
Brioche."

" You have met him before? "

" I have never met him at all. I just saw
him pass out in the dusk as we came in.
TienSy there is Armand; I must go to him.'*
He ran to his elder brother; they were clos-
eted a long time in Armand's private room.

" A prince! It is delightful," said Ma-
dame Bertuchot to her husband.

" It will be delightful," replied Bertuchot,
as a brother-in-law."

" What, in Heaven's name, do you

mean:

In Heaven's name, I mean nothing.
But in the world's I mean that he will pro-
ably propose to Claire."

"Claire!"

"Yes; I imagine that is what Jules has
brought him here for — what else? "

" But he is a Roman Catholic! "

" Yes."

" And a foreigner! "

" Yes."

" And forty— and bald "

" Yes."

" And exceedingly stupid, one would
say!"

" Undoubtedly. Yes."

Madame Bertuchot drew a long breath.

86 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" It would be very strange," she said. " Of
course it would have its charm." A little later
she waylaid Armand.

" Do not be absurd," said the head of the
family sternly. " The man has not been six
hours in the house. We shall see. We shall
see."

Claire, very thoughtfully undressing,
stopped in front of a large cheval mirror,
and suddenly swept to the ground in . the
lowest of courtesies.

" Princesse! " she said aloud.

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU.

The keynote of Madame de Parfondrieu's
whole life was her love for her only son.

Some people, doubtless, would call that
love exaggerated, but not they who are ac-
quainted with the special circumstances of
the case. Even extravagance is only a natural
development.

Madame de Parfondrieu had been married
to her husband at a very early age. She had
had no voice in the matter. Her father, in
fact, had married her to a good-for-nothing
boon companion of his own. Fifty years ago
the story was well known in the clubs — my
father told it me — how old Breluchon, the
money lender, that was drinking with Par-
fondrieu, whom he had robbed and befriended
all through his — the marquis's — long life of
dissipation and whose ancestral chateau he
had acquired from him in the end, had one
evening made the following proposal in the
following terms:

" Parfondrieu, you old fool ! I can't un-

88 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

derstand why you won't marry my daughter
Betty. She is heiress of all I possess; she will
restore to your children the home of their
father. Meanwhile, if you marry her to-mor-
row, I will give you with Betty five hundred
thousand francs."

" I should be satisfied with less," replied
Parfondrieu.

" What the devil do you mean?" ex-
claimed Breluchon.

" Can't you let me have the five hundred
thousand francs without Betty? "

The graceless noble told the story him-
self, both before and after he had married the
heiress. Thus was Betty Breluchon wooed
and won. Thus did she become Marquise de
Parfondrieu and Chateleine of Mauvr>'-les-
Tours. It can not be denied that she was
plain.

The castle and all the money lender's mil-
lions had been settled on her by will. The
old scoundrel evidently knew a blackguard
when he saw him.

Her married life began happily enough.
She liked her father's friend, who had always
treated her kindly, for Parfondrieu could not
but be courteous to a woman. Of love she
knew nothing; she was quite contented to
obey her father and become the devoted wife
of a splendid gentleman who gave her so

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU. 89

much in return for the small gift of her-
self.

She was twenty-five before she was mar-
ried. She was thirty before she understood
how her husband dishonoured her. She was
nearly forty before she realized why he had
married her, and that all the money was hers.
His faithlessness killed, once for all, all her
happiness, all her gentleness, all her trust and
respect. It prepared the ground for the grad-
ual discovery of the power which was still left
her; she hardened in the realization of her
wealth. She was a plain woman, whom hus-
bands did not love, but she was a rich one,
whom they had to consider. At forty she
was left a widow with one boy.

She adored the boy with a widow's adora-
tion. All the love of her whole life, of her
whole nature she concentrated on Louis.
And she set herself the hardest of tasks in the
daily reiterated resolve that her love should
do him no harm.

Nor did it. He grew up honest, straight-
forward, simple-minded, not quite sufficiently
acquainted, perhaps, with all the pleasant pit-
falls which some wise pedagogues point out.
The church laid her hand on him from the
first, and taught him that " without the fold
were dogs." But some lambs, unable to re-
main lambs, refuse to become sheep. He
7

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

grew up, as has been said, straight and strong,
with blue eyes that saw no guile, yet a big
human heart withal, quite ready for human
affections and frailties. His mother had no
desire to make a hermit of him. She had
slowly achieved for herself a great place in
society, strictly Catholic society. Her chari-
ties, her " conferences," her salon, her favour-
ite priests — these things were of importance,
well-known. Her son learned everything that
was needed for the high position he would
occupy; he was a good athlete, a good judge
of art, a good gentleman-farmer, an authority
on ecclesiastical history from the Jesuit point
of view, well acquainted with the rudiments of
political economy. He was as innocent as a
boy can be who attends confession. And at
the age of twenty-one he went to stay with
some cousins in Aveyron, whose steward had
a very pretty daughter.

Madame de Parfondrieu had of course a
steward also, but he is of no interest what-
ever in the story of her life. She also had a
friend who did a lot of promiscuous business
for her, a little old man called Chauveau —
Antoine Chauveau of Nanterre.

Many people, doubtless, still remember
Chauveau. Any number of families employed
him, yet nobody seemed exactly to know
what he did, although he was always quietly

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU. 91

busy. He had begun life as clerk to the old
" banker " Breluchon, and it was sometimes
suggested that he had fostered a mad passion
for his master's daughter, who was a few
years older than he. At any rate, he never
married.

This old gentleman called on the marquise
one morning and bowed to the ground, as
was his habit on being admitted to her pres-
ence. He had come about some charity — a
shopkeeper for whom the marquise was sure-
ty; first he transacted this business; it was only
on rising to go that he inquired:

" You have good news of Monsieur Louis,
madame la marquise? "

Yes, madame had good news of her son.

" I am truly glad to hear it. He is enjoy-
ing himself in the country? Ah, yes! He
does not say how? "

" Speak out at once and tell me all about
it," said Madame de Parfondrieu, sitting up
in her high-backed chair.

" But, madame "

" Chauveau, do you think by this time I
do not know your face and your manner?
What have you heard? *'

** Nothing of any serious importance, ma-
dame la marquise. With an ordinary woman
it would not be important at all. But you —
you are so different from other women. On

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

some subjects you have such peculiar ideas,
superior ideas, I do not deny it, but still "

" I understand. It has come at last. Of
course I knew it must come," interrupted
Madame de Parfondrieu in much agitation.
"God! I had an idea it would never come,
but that was absurd, and I knew it was ab-
surd! Of course. I know men, I — ^what is
the name of the girl? ''

" Leonie Dassier, the steward's daughter.
But, dear madame la marquise, permit me; I
fear you exaggerate. Let me tell you the
facts of a harmless flirtation, at least **

The mother put up her hand. " No, for-
give me," she said. " My dear Chauveau, I
must have the particulars only from my

son.

" So be it, but try not to judge them as
his mother "

She looked the old man in the eyes. " I
have tried all my life," she said, " to make my
son different from other men. And now see,
he is like other men."

" It would be wrong in you to be angry
with him for that."

" Madame de Parfondrieu is not angry,
my friend. His mother is angry. Can a
mother be angry with her son? I do not
think so. I suppose I am not angry." The
tears poured down her cheeks.

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU. 93

He left her. She dried her tears, and her
face gr^w hard.

And she sent a telegram within an hour:
" Return immediately! Your mother."
Immediately Louis returned. He had
never known her ill. He thought she must
be dying. " No," said the old servant, " ma-
dame la marquise was but slightly indisposed;
she expected Monsieur Louis in her sitting-
room." As soon as he entered, she accosted
him:

** What have you done to Leonie Das-

sierr

Ah! you know, then?" he cried, his
whole face lighting up. " I am delighted! I
prayed my cousin Eugenia to write to you,
but I did not think she intended to do it."

" She has written," said the marquise se-
verely, " to Antoine Chauveau, I presume.
Louis, my whole life has been devoted to
teaching you that the hearts of women are
not the playthings of men. Fool that I was
to believe that my son at least would be
pure! "

" Maman, what dost thou mean? "

" Oh, I know the conventional reasoning!
You shall not hold it to me, Louis. You had
no right to approach this girl with your cour-
tesies, not intending to marry her! "

" But of course I intend to marry her!

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

How could my cousin Eugenia say not? She
is a stupid woman; I did not know she was a
wicked one. I told her "

" You — ^intend — to— marry — this girl? "

" Mother, I shall never love any one else.
Of course it is not quite the marriage either
you or I could have wished. I knew you
would be vexed, so I asked my cousin to pre-
pare you. But, mother, you see it is not so
bad as you fancied. How could you think
that I, your son, had asked a girl to marry me,
not meaning it?"

You have asked her to marry you? "
Yes; mother, what have they written?
Had I but written at once; I am punished for
my cowardice. Ah, mother, how must you
have suffered, to doubt of your son! **

She rose and stood looking at him. His
blue eyes filled with her own. ** Tu es bete,"
she said. " Thank God! thou art only that."
As she passed him she read in his silent face,
like a flash, the reminiscence that she had been
a Demoiselle Breluchon.

In the evening she told him abruptly that
she had written for this girl to come and see
her. Leonie spent a day or two with madame
la marquise. The girl was a passionate south-
ern beauty, with burning lips and eyes — all
vibration and sweetness and anger and im-
pulse: a c^ess and a sting.

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU. 95

When she was gone Madame de Parfon-
drieu recalled her son.

" You will be wretched with that girl,"
she said.

" I have never loved a woman before," he
replied.

" She is not at all the wife for you. I do
not believe she is a good girl."

Mother, how dare you say that? "
I say it with a bleeding heart. I do not
believe she is a good girl."

" I shall never love another woman again."

" Pshaw, you will love many women! "

He bit his lip, trembling.

" Some day you will come to me and curse
this hour! "

" Nay, I shall not curse it. Though it has
taught me that my mother can be unjust."

" So marry whomsoever thou wilt, my
son. See, one can marry but once. A second
marriage is no marriage. And most men and
women never marry at all ! "

" I do not understand what you mean,
mother."

" We go to church," she said, speaking to
herself, " and then we live together."

" But I,^' he exclaimed triumphantly,
"love Leonie! "

Therefore they were married — a handsome
couple, devoted, delighted, a nine days' scan-

^ SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

dal. Then people talked about something
else, and the Marquise Douairiere set herself
to make head or tail of her daughter-in-law.

Leonie's idea was to live in the great world
and play the grande dame, a role for which
she considered herself admirably fitted. Ma-
dame de Parfondrieu's aspiration was to keep
her hidden away at Mauvry-les-Tours, for the
present at any rate. The diversities of opin-
ion between the ladies, the complications, the
contradictions, the amiable dissensions, these
supplied tittle-tattle for a hundred tea tables
and smoking rooms. Such things leak out.
Many a good story reached us which now it
would be bad taste to repeat, for a great catas-
trophe sweeps the smiles from the most satiri-
cal faces. A year elapsed before we were
allowed to see the Marquise en Percale, as
some punster had dubbed her.

When she came among us she looked
bored, but with the dangerous look of a bored
woman who wants to be amused. Her eyes
were full of slumbrous passion and arrogance
and discontent. The old marchioness was
much to the front ; the young people were her
guests in her big '' hotel," drove in her car-
riages, sat through her long clerical recep-
tions. But every one could see that Louis
at any rate worshipped his beautiful wife.
" She is charming, but she wants educating,"

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU.

said one of the worst men I have known. " I
imagine she is highly educable."

They disappeared again for some months.
The health of the old marquise broke down,
and they went off to one of the horrible water-
ing places — where nobody but sick people
go; where the doctors as well as the patients
believe in the waters. When they came back
again everybody, except the husband and
mother, soon knew what the mother usually
knows first and the husband last.

On an evening in November, a raw and
gusty evening, about tea time, a cab stopped
in front of a dingy house in a by-street. A
veiled female figure emerged from the vehicle,
told the coachman to wait, gave a name to
the concierge and slowly ascended the stair-
case. A tall and majestic figure, of sure foot
and slow, conscious carriage. At the entrance
to an apartment on the second floor a slight
parley, almost an altercation, ensued. A door
in the passage slipped open, a woman looked
out.

" See, it is thou! " said Madame de Par-
fondrieu to the woman.

" I would not let her pass," explained the
little maid triumphantly. But Madame de
Parfondrieu closed the door of the brilliantly
lighted drawing-room.

" If that man comes, have the goodness

98 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

to say you are momentarily engaged," she
said, with a swift glance round. *' You are
expecting him? I had understood he was sel-
dom as early as this! '* She sank into a chair.
" Have the goodness, I beg of you, to give
your order," she said, and when Leonie had
obeyed:

"He keeps you waiting!" said the old
woman in deepest accents of scorn. Leonie
did not answer. There was silence.

" I had thought," began Madame de Par-
fondrieu presently, painfully steadying her
voice, " that such women did not exist. You
will laugh at me, I suppose, for a stupid old
woman. I — I had believed there were un-
married women who fell, but married women
— no! I had thought these were only in com-
edy. I ask myself " — her eyes vaguely sought
her daughter-in-law's face — " is this thing of
frequent occurrence? I wonder — " She rose,
and with an exceeding bitter cry: " My God,
what does it matter? It has happened to
my son! "

" Hush, hush ! " interrupted Leonie, sud-
denly looking up from the couch on which
she had sunk.

"Ah, true! You fear exposure! Some
one might hear. That is the one thing they
dread, those women, is it not? — exposure! "

" I do not know. Do not ask me; I know

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU.

nothing," said Leonie, once more dropping
her face on her hands.

" Ah, madame, you know too much, far
too much,'* replied the marquise. ** It is I
who can do nothing, say nothing. I do not
understand. I could have wept with you, if
needs were, the errors of my son — wept tears
of my heart's blood. Often have I pictured
the thing to myself, have dreaded it, have
prayed over it daily; in my littleness of faith,
almost expecting it! But this! Never have
I prayed about it; never have I given it
a thought. And it has come upon me.
You and I, madame, we have to face it to-
gether."

" What do you mean? " asked Leonie, her
head uplifted, a quick flash of hope across her
hot eyes.

** My son "

" You will not tell him? "

For all reply Madame de Parfondrieu
burst into passionate weeping.

A ring was heard in the hall. The maid
went to open. Steps — a man's voice — a
lengthy discussion — the two women held
their breaths to listen — then the hall door
closed with a bang and the little maid walked
in, unannounced, with a defiant look at the
visitor.

" Monsieur will return to-morrow, unless

100 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

I summon him from the cafe in ten minutes/'
she said. ** Monsieur was verv cross/'

" Go, then, away," exclaimed Leonie with
a wave of the hand. The little maid departed
pouting.

Madame de Parfondrieu rose, steadying
herself. " You would have no scandal? I
understand, marquise/' she said. " You would
remain as you are. Yes, that would be very
pleasant. And you think, woman, that my
son could continue to live with you — that I
— that you? No, God is my witness, I love
my son too truly for that! "

" I understand," said Leonie in a low
voice.

Her mother-in-law stood looking at her.

" Yes, I understand," repeated the other
woman, staring in front of her, her chin in
her hand. *' But do you also understand me?
It is true, as you say, the wrong I have done
Louis is beyond redress. And it would not
be possible that you and I should live side
by side, knowing what we know. Nor should
I wish it. I have often thought that it would
come, and that the end of this would be the
end of all. But, then, do you also understand
why it came? I am not of your race, I — not
of your rank, not of your surroundings. And
I am of the South! Your house has been a
hell to me; I was wretched, utterly wretched,

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU. loi

and dully desperate, and forlorn. Oh, I know
he loved me ! " She rose, with hands upheld
above her brow. ** Don't tell me that ! I
know it— r-I know it ! That, somehow, I could
not tell you how, has been the most awful
thing of all! He loved me! I loved him! I
was wretched! God, had I not loved him I
could have understood how wretched I was! "

Madame de Parfondrieu stood still.
I pity you deeply," she said.
I do not want your pity, madame, for
you can not pity me aright. Of me you can
understand nothing, nor I of you. Well, it
is over. It has been terrible. I would not
live through it again. Nor is that necessary.
Adieu, madame. Do not tell Louis. Invent
some story of my disappearance. He loved
me. Leave him my memory. He will marry
again, some one of his own surroundings.
His cousin, whom you wanted him to marry.
Let him marry her."

" What! you tell me to my face that you
will continue this connection? "

'* No! " She swept up her blazing eyes
to pieet the other's gaze. " Even in your
hideous religion your son will be able honestly
to marry again! Now, go! "

The old dowager drew her mantle around
her, quivering under the words.

" It is the best thing you can do," she said

I02 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

hesitatingly. " There is nothing else left you.
The best thing. The only thing." She spoke
lingeringly, as if thinking out this project of
voluntary, inevitable self-retribution. Still
uncertain, she took a step forward.

" Nay, go," said Leonie, pointing. And
without any word of further explanation Ma-
dame de Parfondrieu quitted the room. Nei-
ther she nor her daughter-in-law had any-
thing left to say to each other.

The little maid showed the grand old lady
out with an ill-repressed sniff of spiteful con-
tempt. Immediately after the door had closed
she ran to her mistress.

" Madame, shall I hurry and fetch him?
The ten minutes are over, it is true; but, ah
me! he will have waited twenty; he was angry,
very angry, but he is waiting, never fear! I
will run to the cafe; I will fetch him."

Her mistress, lying with her face hid in
the sofa cushions, did not move.

" Madame, do not cry, I entreat you. It
is not worth while. Old women are always
nasty to young ones — my grandmother is
cruel — it is their way of regretting the youth
and the loves that are gone."

Leonie lifted a hot head. " I was not
crying, girl," she said. '* I — I believe I was
praying. No, we will not call him to-night.
I am very tired; I shall go to bed. Give me

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU. 103

the little pink box with the sleeping powders.
They are only sleeping powders, mind you.
Monsieur Paul is a bad man. You must not
let him make love to you — ever — do you
hear? "

" I! madame. Fie! does madame think I
could do her such treachery? Surely, I have
not merited "

" You are a faithful girl, Suzon. I was
thinking of the future. Get me the box.
They are only sleeping powders, mind you;
when one is too hot and feverish, when one
burns, they put you to sleep. To sleep."

Meanwhile Madame de Parfondrieu in the
cab sat expecting the tears that did not
come. In truth, her brain was too busy with
thoughts of what would happen next.

That this creature should pass out of their
lives was of course the only thing possible;
there could be no further intercourse between
them, however much either might desire it;
when a crystal is broken you throw it away.
Neither could desire it. If this woman should
consider self-annihilation the only fitting, the
only possible termination to her career — for
Madame de Parfondrieu had well understood
Leonie's meaning — who was she, Madame de
Parfondrieu, to advise otherwise, to dissuade
from a step which, however wrong in itself,
did indeed seem the only possible issue.

104

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

There are cases in which suicide is onlv an-
other form of self-execution. The culprit is
his own judge. Madame de Parfondrieu had
even a text ready out of the Bible: " Ye, then,
if ye would but judge yourselves, ye should
not be judged." She did not quote it liter-
ally; anyhow, once remembered it fitted ad-
mirably into her thoughts. And Louis would
be free.

She sent away the cab and crept back into
her own house. As soon as she crossed the
threshold, a great agitation befell her. Her
son was here in his room, probably writing
or reading a little before it was time to dress
for dinner. She must go to him, then, and
tell all. But )she dared not. Her knees
knocked together. She sat down in an up-
stairs hall.

As for Leonie's appeal to remain sacred
in her husband's memory, the mother-in-law
ignored it. She would go to her son, and
now that this three years* madness had passed
out of his life, she would heal the wound once
for all, immediately by cauterizing this wound
that gaped between him and herself. What
matter if healing, being healing, hurts? She
rose, and dragging herself to her son's room,
hurriedly entered.

He was standing by the lamp which, under
a gigantic yellow shade, illuminated his writ-

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU.

105

ing table. The whole room was full of golden
light. A couple of envelopes, a number of
photographs lay in a little heap beside the
lamp. He turned with suppressed annoyance,
for he detested his mother's habit of entering
without a knock.

" The proofs have come from Barretti's,'*
he said. " I think they are very good. Look,
mother, they are very good."

She drew near. Three large boudoir pho-
tographs of her daughter-in-law were spread
out on the table. He arranged them, prop-
ping them carefully, under the full light of
the lamp. They were showy portraits in even-
ing dress, with a fur cloak, flowers, and jewels;
very handsome, a little vulgar, a little " loud "
— exceedingly like.

"They are good; I am so glad they are
good," he repeated. She wondered for whom
she had had them made.

" Don't you think they are good? " he
went on. ** Say they are good. Every one
must think so, maman."

'* I do not like these new-fangled photos,"
she answered. ** Louis, there is something
else I would speak of to you."

" Business? Ah! dear mother, let it wait
for ten minutes. There is always business.
You like it, I believe. I detest it. Let me
enjoy, for a few seconds, my portraits. Nay,

l06 SOME WOMEN 1 HAVE KNOWN.

I am willing to do business of all kinds, and
even to knit socks for the poor. Leonie told
me yesterday she was going to try to be good
to the poor. It is hard. And it is not very
pleasant. Dear creature, she does all that she
can — all that she can."

The mother recoiled before the implied
reproof of these words. Suddenly Louis
dropped upon his knees, and drawing one of
the photos toward him passionately, repeat-
edly kissed the impassively smiling face.

" Louis! '' The old woman's heart failed
within her at the agony that broke through
her voice.

" I know you think I exaggerate. But,
mother," he rose, " you can not understand,
you will never understand what Leonie is to
me. I am different from other men as you
have known them. I am different even — for-
give me, you have never told me anything, but
I am a man, I think I have understood — dif-
ferent from my own father. To some few
men one love is sufficient; they would have
no room in their lives for more. Leonie fills
my whole existence; I have nothing to re-
member, nothing to forget. She is the whole
of my love-life. I adore her. That I should
do in any case. But I thank God " — his voice
shook — " for having made her worthy of all
the adoration my heart can bestow."

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU. 107

" You believe much in women, my son,"
said the dowager bitterly from behind him.
He turned quickly. " I know little of wom-
en," he said. " I believe in my mother and
my wife."

" And supposing either were faithless? "

He smiled. ** I should believe in them
still."

" You mock me, Louis. Supposing your
wife were faithless? "

" It is you who mock me, my mother.
There are things — ah! pardon — that one
should not say even in jest. You do not like
Leonie as much as I should wish. I am very
sorry. It is the one disturbance of my life.
I do not think she is very happy. I love her
all the more on that account. She is faith-
ful and loyal and true, and even were she
not "

** Well— were she not? "

" It is an absurdity, mother; but — well,
then the fault would be mine."

" Mine."

" I say mine, not yours. It is unthink-
able; I do not know why you speak like this
— but, admitting the supposition, yes, the
fault would be mine. It is I who have
brought her here. I who have made her un-
happy —

Unhappy! "

I08 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Not that I could help it, perhaps, and
yet I do not know. I owe her a great repara-
tion." He took up one of the photos as if
he would have kissed it, but manfully put it
down.

"Pauvrette!"hesaid.

" Your love," she burst out impetuously,
trembling from head to foot; "your love is
the love of a fool! "

" Better than that of a rogue," he an-
swered; " and a man's love is always one or
the other."

" And without this plaything you would
die? "

" Mother, what ails you to-night? You
are terrible! Die? — no. If God took my
wife from me — he alone could do it — I
should live, praying daily for death. I should
live and try to do my duty. He would see
into my heart; he would forgive the prayer."

"And I, then, am nothing!" The cry
rang against the walls. She did not hear his
answer; she heard nothing but the cry echo-
ing, re-echoing through long galleries of
lonely thought. She had hastened to the
door. She was fumbling to find the lock.

" I am tired," she said. " It wants nearly
an hour to dinner. I am going to lie down."

" Do that," he answered soothingly.
" You are not yourself. I will go and show

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU.

109

these to Leonie. She was anxious to have
them."

" Leonie is not at home/' sharply ex-
claimed Madame de Parfondrieu.

" Not at home? It is surely getting late.
Good Heavens, if something has befallen
her! "

*' No, no; she will be in presently. Keep
your photographs. In half an hour you will
be able to show her them, my son." She
closed the door upon him; she ran down-
stairs as if she were not old and feeble. She
sent her astonished hall-porter for a cab. Ma-
dame la marquise in a cab! He had never
known such a thing to happen before. " I have
forgotten a commission," she said, " for a
poor woman. It is close by. I shall only be
twenty minutes. No, nobody need go with
me. It is unnecessary. Drive on!" She
gave the cabman the address a little later;
she promised him five francs if he drove faster
than he could.

Hardly waiting for the inevitable explana-
tions, she flew up to the second story and
rang. " Hush! madame sleeps," said the an-
gry Suzon.

A hideous sickness took possession of
Madame de Parfondrieu. " I must see your
mistress at all costs," she made answer. " If
she is still here, I must see her — her happi-

no SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

ness, her very life depends on it — if she is not,
tell me instantly where she is gone! "

" She is here/' said the gfirl, impressed by
the great lady's manner.

" If you love her "

" If I — ? I adore her. She is the best
mistress on earth," said Suzon. " It is you
who are a wicked woman, and "

"Possibly. God, I do not deny it! If
you love her, then, instantly admit me. A
moment's delay may mean death!"

The girl shrank aside. Madame de Par-
fondrieu passed hurriedly into the sitting-
room and so on, through the half-open
door, into the bed-chamber beyond. Both
rooms were brilliantly lighted. On the bed,
in the full light and warmth, Leonie lay
stretched out. She was in white undress,
the black masses of hair all about her. The
long lashes lay dark on the dusk of her
cheeks.

Madame de Parfondrieu bent over her and
ran back. ** A doctor! " she cried; " a doctor
instantly — a doctor! " Suzon, who was close
behind her, burst out crying and rushed
downstairs.

When the little maid returned from send-
ing the concierge she found Madame de Par-
fondrieu pacing the two rooms in a fever of
agitation. There was lace about the old lady's

MADAME DE PARFONDRIEU. m

toilet; it hung in shreds between her fingers
and on the floor.

Suzon stopped for a moment and stared
at her. Then the girl burst out: " I had for-
gotten. When madame went to bed to-night
she was melancholy, and she said to me:
* Suzon, if by any chance you should meet
again the lady who was here to-night you
must tell her I forgive her. Remember that,'
she said, * it is all — ^just to tell her I forgave
her.' " She brushed past the old marquise
and stooped beside the bed. Then, facing
round, with a torrent of tears: " But I shall
never forgive you! What came you here for,
making her wretched? You, what are you,
old and ugly, to grudge other people their
happiness? " and, to the other's horrified
amazement, she burst out into a flow of the
vilest gutter epithets, heaping up insult and
indecent abuse with the swift ease of a
child of the purlieus. The marchioness
stood silent, drenched under a downpour of
filth!

Louis de Parfondrieu knows nothing. It
has been necessary, therefore, here to alter
his name. He lives almost entirely with
his mother at the place which in these
pages has been called Mauvry-les-Tours.
Their charities are immense; they build

112 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

churches, convents, asylums, schools for
girls. The only point of dispute between
them is that he always wants to dedicate
each new institution to the memory of
Leonie.

LITTLE MARY.

Mary Bates lived in Parade Gardens,
Harrogate. For aught I know she lives there
stilL Her story was told me by her most
intimate friend, who was English governess
to my sister's children. Of course, the gov-
erness ought not to have told it, but for what
else, may I ask, are a woman's female friends?

Mary Bates lived with her widowed moth-
er and " invalid " sister in Parade Gardens,
Harrogate. Her father had been an officer
and a gentleman, one of the Christian heroes
of the Mutiny, and that fact was the lasting
satisfaction of his younger daughter's life.
She had never known him — he had died in
India — but her loyalty treasured every relic
and legend that had gathered round his name.

Mother and daughters dwelled in the
trimmest of twenty-four trim little houses.
There was something in the fall of the muslin
curtains and in the shine of the polished
knocker that immediately told you a very
great deal about the middle-aged people in-

113

114 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

side. Nobody could associate youth with that
house, or movement of any kind; the solemn
maid who answered the bell looked twice her
count of years — if, indeed, she still kept count
of them. As a matter of fact, she was prob-
ably twenty-five. But then, Mary herself was
once eight-and-twenty; however, she had
been born older than that.

She was eight-and-twenty at the time of
her great romance.

Mother and daughters had an annual in-
come of five hundred pounds. They were
therefore equally removed from poverty and
from affluence.

" Mine is the desire of the Psalmist," said
old Mrs. Bates. She always said it when com-
paring with people who had less. " Two
maids is better than one, and still better than
four." That is the sort of sentence which,
once wedged into the head of an old person
like Mrs. Bates, gets taken out and replaced
half a dozen times a day.

The captain's widow was not a particular-
ly attractive old lady to see much of. She had
never had many ideas even in her best days,
and now most of them were gone. Her chief
pleasure, in her girlhood and early married
life, had been her pink-andrwhite complexion,
her doll-like good looks; she had simpered,
and one or two delightful young subalterns

LITTLE MARY. 115

had paid her harmless attentions. When
she remembered these — alack, so often! — she
could simper still. Her health was bad — she
was over eighty — she suffered from an ob-
jectionable, very loose cough. Little Mary
preserved her in cotton wool, else had she
been dead a dozen years ago. It was Mary's
particular pride that she kept her tottery old
mother ** nice."

** The world is terribly wicked," old Mrs.
Bates would say, sitting white and spruce in
her armchair by the window, while little Mary,
half dead with all the dressing and fussing,
read out scraps of news from the Daily Tele-
graph. ** I imagine, do you know, it is worse
than when I was as young as you ! "

'* Oh, mother! " protested the daughter,
" just think of all the good work that's
done!"

"Good work! — what work, pray? We
never had a servant could sew like my moth-
er's Susan Jane! "

" I was thinking of charity," softly said
little Mary. " Oh, you mean philanthro-
pies! " snorted Mrs. Bates.

A personage little disturbed by the rising
waves of altruism was Louisa. This lady of
some thirty russet autumns was one of those
serenely happy mortals (in theory, of course,
we deeply pity them) who never swerve for

Il6 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

any one's sake from the path of self-indul-
gence. She possessed that not uncommon
constitution which permits its owner to do
exactly what it likes to do, neither more nor
less. She could spend a whole day at a red-hot
picnic, walking for miles; a message around
the corner might at any time bring on a real
sick headache. She could produce swellings
and pains ad libitum, not under the control
of her will, but as a spontaneous outcome of
" nerves." She had even been known to go
blind for ten days through her eyelids refus-
ing to lift. They went up like shutters when
the Seventeenth Lancers came to Leeds at
the time of the great crisis in the wool trade.
On the whole, however, she lived content, if
only she could have her daily round of little
pleasures, little toilet novelties, little worries,
little grumblings, and little ailments — all that
she asked for was ceaseless, devoted, unrepin-
ing labour on the part of little Mary. She
got it. There were moments, of course, when
Louisa had to wait because Mrs. Bates was
calling. These were the troubled times in
little Mary's existence. Otherwise the latter
struggled placidly on against overwhelming
pressure, trying not to feel how much the
feeblest effort exhausted her. It was impos-
sible for Louisa to get up early or stay up
late (unless for a picnic or party); Mary rose

LITTLE MARY.

117

little after the servants, but then they had
retired to rest a couple of hours before her.
The worst of it was that Mary disapproved of
all Louisa's innocent diversions — the theatre,
the popular concerts, an occasional night at
the music hall. These things little Mary con-
sidered sinful, and so would not have accom-
panied her sister, whom she could not accom-
pany in any case, as Mrs. Bates objected to
being left alone. Nevertheless, here was a
standing grievance for Louisa, and, in fact,
on one occasion she had taken such vehe-
ment umbrage that she left off speaking to
Mary at all, excepting through their mother.
For more than seven years this state of
things continued — it is easier far to start on
such a track than to turn back when well
started — but as Mrs. Bates grew deafer the
complications it occasioned constantly in-
creased.

" Ma!" cried Louisa. (How Mary used to
dread that reiterated word!) "Ma, please
tell Mary that I shan't be home till late to-
night."

How late? " asked Mary quietly.
Ma, can I have the latch-key? "
I don't think it shows a bit," replied
Mrs. Bates, dozing over the illustrated Pil-
grim's Progress which Mary made her "read."
" What doesn't show? " cried Louisa.

it
(t

Il8 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

"The patch on your jacket. I think
Mary's sewed it very nicely."

" I wasn't talking of patches! May I have
the latch-key? "

" Mother doesn't like the door left un-
locked," said little Mary, threading her
needle.

" Ma, will you please tell Mary I can't be
back before past eleven. There's an enter-
tainment in the schoolroom; the new curate's
coming."

" But who will see you home? " asked
Mary.

** Ma, the new curate has rooms in Vic-
toria Place."

** Louisa, do you know I think your con-
duct wicked? " suddenly began little Mary,
two bright spots on her sallow cheeks.

Louisa, shaking her dusty ringlets, pre-
tended not to hear.

" You have gone on like this for more
than seven years," hurried on little Mary, her
voice very near a breakdown. " I have told
you before, Louisa, I am sure it is very wrong
of you. Some day you will be sorry — ^yes,
sorry for your wickedness."

Louisa got up and went round to her
mother's deafest ear. "Ma!" she shouted;
" tell Mary to leave off, will you? She's call-
ing me names."

LITTLE MARY.

119

" La, surely not! " exclaimed Mrs. Bates,
almost dropping Bunyan. " Fm sure you're
mistaken, Louisa! It must be Bible texts!"

Little Mary, unable as are most good-na-
tured people to distinguish between righteous
indignation and naughty temper, went up to
her dark room and cried.

When she came down again Louisa had
departed, leaving directions that she would
like a cup of tea on her return, ** Which of
course you will not have made,'* said Mrs.
Bates. " The servants, as I tell Louisa, have
a right to their night's rest. Louisa's de-
mands upon our patience are sometimes too
utterly absurd." Little Mary agreed, and did
not order the tea. She penitently made it
herself. But first she spent the whole long
evening listening to Mrs. Bates's perennial
tales of (personal) Indian conquest and put-
ting in the required replies. Little Mary's
conversations with her mother were like
games of cup and ball.

Then she helped the shaky old lady to bed,
and kept her from breaking her neck and a
dozen less important objects. The nightly
undressing, hair-dressing, redressing lasted
more than an hour. ** I like it," gasped little
Mary.

Mrs. Bates having groaned herself to
sleep — snores were even sweet music to little

120 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

Mary — her daughter wandered downstairs,
looked after the tea, and sat herself down to
expectant needlework. It had always been
Mary's dearest aspiration to possess a Sunday
class of her very own — a. very hopeless aspira-
tion, for Mrs. Bates required continuous com-
forting during the dreary Sunday afternoons.
" I never have time somehow," sighed miser-
able little Mary, *' to do anything for any one
else!" Yet she could not help feeling an-
noyed when Louisa pointed out the same fact
to her.

Louisa greatly enjoyed the Sunday school
— not the long, dull hour of lesson, but all the
before and after, and the curate's weekly prep-
aration class. The curate called her his right
hand.

" Yes, you are my right hand, dear Miss
Bates," he was saying, as they walked back
together on that foggy night. " Positively
my right hand. I can not imagine what I
should do without you."

"Without me!" echoed Louisa.
Yes, without you."

Oh! you don't want me," said Louisa
coyly.

" Every hour of the — Sunday," replied the
curate.

" Come in and have a cup of tea," said
Louisa suddenly.

LITTLE MARY. 12 1

"At this hour of night, my dear Miss
Bates? "

" Oh ! my sister promised, if I was good,
I should have some tea on returning."
" " And you're sure you have been good? "

"Haven't I?" she turned archly in the
doorway.

" Very, very good."

" This is my sister Mary. Mr. Brass."

The young curate bowed. He was not a
bad-looking young fellow, but too lanky
everywhere. He was bright and honest and
earnest, but he " enjoyed his tea."

"Thank you; with pleasure," he said,
when Mary refilled the cups. " And can you
not be persuaded," he said, " to join in our
good work? "

"Oh! teaching isn't in Mary's line," put
in Louisa hastily.

" I'm too young," said Mary, laughing,
but not without a touch of spirit. Louisa
scowled.

" Surely," continued the curate, " the
leading the youthful lambs in the "

" Mother needs a deal of care," said Mary.
Her eyes met the young man's, and suddenly
he understood it all. " I may come and call
some afternoon? " he said, rising to depart.
" Come and call upon your mother, may I
not?"

122 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" We shall be delighted," said Louisa.
Little Mary's eyes were on the tea-cups. As
soon as the front door had closed on Mr.
Brass, Louisa marched straight past her sister,
turned back on the staircase, said " Minx! "
and went to bed.

" Well, she's spoken to me at any rate,"
reflected little Mary, as she locked up and put
out the lights.

The curate on his way home considered
that Louisa possessed a sort of florid hand-
someness, but that Mary had gentle eyes. He
pondered over this fact and drew conclusions.
For every man some sort of woman's eyes
prove irresistible. It all depends, as in the
case of Augustus and Cleopatra, upon his
meeting with the fatal sort!

The curate had long been troubled with
a growing weight of loneliness. In fact, he
was looking for a wife. He disliked his com-
fortless rooms in Victoria Place, and had
begun very cautiously to flirt a little here and
there. He had paid some small attention to
Louisa. Needless to say, he was not a bril-
liant parti; still he possessed a couple of hun-
dred a year in addition to his stipend. And
he was eminently worthy. He was a total
abstainer.

But he also formed the boys of his Bible
class into a cricket club.

LITTLE MARY.

123

In expectation of possible developments,
he called frequently on the Bateses, and was
amiable (but he could not have been other-
wise) to all three ladies. He listened to Mrs.
Bates's tales of Indian life, inquired frequently
after her only son (a civil engineer in' Lon-
don) and his wife and children (especially
Polly, little Mary's goddaughter— the end-
lessly witty, amusing inexhaustible Polly) ; he
even read Mrs. Bates asleep out of the Pil-
grim's Progress. And then he talked on
about Polly — a subject which never wearied
little Mary, until:

" Ma," exclaimed the exasperate<Mbtf>uisa,
starting Mrs. Bates awake, " don't you think
Mr. Brass has had more than enough of the
babblings of a child of five! "

Little Mary coloured. " I love children,"
said Eric Brass.

"All good men do," said little Mary softly.
"You flirt!" gasped Louisa between her
teeth, and began to talk very loud about the
coming bazar.

For a big bazar was approaching, filling
for the moment the lives of all the young
ladies connected with the parish of St. Jude's.
Most people will remember the great work
undertaken in the later eighties by the noble-
hearted and energetic Bishop of the Carribees,
when that prelate alarmed by the rapid physi-

124

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

cal degeneration of his converts since Chris-
tianity, had deprived them of their customary
food, in5tituted — himself, it is hardly neces-
sary to say, an enthusiastic cyclist — the great
Carribee Cycling Movement in all the parishes
of his island diocese. The name " Muscular
Christians " had not then become a by-word,
yet the bishop experienced the greatest diffi-
culty in popularizing not only the term itself,
but still more the idea it conveys, for " mus-
cular" in Carribee covers the same concep-
tion as ** sinewy," and " sinewy " again is not
distinguishable from " tough," which later
idea veijMiaturally suggests to this primitive
people unpleasant associations, as connected
with the human frame. Ultimately, however,
British pluck and persistency conquered;
cycling in native costume over the coral reefs
and under the spicy breezes became the fash-
ionable pastime, and also a condition for par-
ish relief. Immense funds were required for
the purchase of thousands of " safeties "
(these were just coming in); a great central
committee, under the management of the
well-known Mrs. Russell and her sister-in-
law, Mrs. Brisbane Bottom, organized the
vast labour of National Appeal. Unfortu-
nately, it was before the time when the cele-
brated Piccaninny Sauce had enriched the
South Sea bishopric with the wealth of Hoi-

LITTLE MARY. 125

loway and Bovril combined. At the time of
the Harrogate fete and sale three thousand
four hundred and seventy-three bicycles still
remained unsubscribed for. That cipher,
however, it must be admitted, brought down
the age of eligible applicants to six. And to
everybody who cared for the welfare of his
kind, and to everybody who didn't circulars
were forwarded with the motto:

•• Through the shadow of the globe we wheel into the
younger day,
Send us fifteen pounds from Europe for a cycle in
Cathay."

Harrogate, among other places, went oflf
its head. The vicar of St. Jude's took
command of the movement and safely guided
it into a bazar. All his curates and helpers
he marshalled around him, and bade them play
up to Mammon and cut away his purse while
he danced.

Eric Brass brought the news to the house-
hold in Parade Gardens, and easily " en-
thused " the two Miss Bateses. But a few
days later a rumour spread that one of the
chief attractions of the show would be a mu-
sical bicycle ride by young ladies in bloomers.
So long ago are the later eighties! Then both
the spinsters' faces lengthened to their waists.
Louisa's because she could not ride, and

126 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

Mary's because she considered such doings
improper.

" But it is the costume of Rebecca and
Rachel," pleaded the curate; " the dress of the
women of the East."

" Would you have us wear the costume of
Eve? " leaped to little Mary's lips. But she
only said: "And what, Mr. Brass, is to be
your work? " For that was little Mary's
greatest triumph: the keeping a natural quick
wit and sharp tongue muffled up in charity
and righteousness.

The tea stall," he answered, beaming;
and I expect both you ladies to help me.
For once, Mrs. Bates," he bawled, '' I trust
you will make an exception "

But Mrs. Bates, who could hear when
necessary, immediately assumed what Louisa
called her " cry-baby " mood and querulously
lamented the helplessness of old age. " I'm
a poor, useless old woman," she mourned;
" time was when I could have made all the
tea — ^aye, and sold it to officers."

" The bloomers will attract officers," said
the curate recklessly.

" I am the eldest," said Louisa.

" You are," said Mary and smiled.

" Ma, don't you think," cried Louisa,
" thi^t Mary's too young to sell tea by herself
in a crowded hall? "

LITTLE MARY.

127

" If I could only get one of you," sug-
gested the curate timidly. " I was thinking
of asking Mrs. Deyereux Smith and her two
little daughters "

"Oh!" said Louisa; "I don't like Mrs.
Smith alias Devereux."

Little Mary, with whom that remark had
originated, bit her lip.

" But I must go to the sale! " cried Louisa,
and viciously slapped down a paper-knife on
the Christian World.

Mrs. Bates sat up with sudden energy.
" You must draw lots, my dears," she said,
feeling herself to be very unselfish.

The curate jumped at the idea, bore down
all Mary's faint opposition, hurriedly pre-
sented his two hands to Louisa: " Which will
you have? ' he cried. " One of these is you
and the other Miss Mary!" "The right,"
gasped Louisa. " You've lost — 'tis Miss
Mary! " said the curate.

" Ma," shrieked Louisa, " don't you think
Mary's far too "

" No; as I have won I shall go," remarked
Mary.

"Oh! do by all means," retorted Louisa
(for she now occasionally spoke to her sister
when the curate was present, " lest the man
should find out "). " And remember to be
rude to Mrs. Smith! " Little Mary made no

128 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

answer. She set herself almost immediately
to prepare a smart costume for the important
occasion, and held many a delightfully ex-
haustive conference with the curate about all
the requirements of their stall. The curate
was painfully particular regarding the quality
of the tea; he wrote to a dozen addresses.
Louisa, who possessed her soul in almost dis-
tressing patience, confined herself to the casu-
ally repeated remark that, anyhow, Mary's tea
was bound to be undrinkable.

So the much-expected event approached.
In fact, it was only one day off, when the tele-
gram came from London.

Eric Brass had called on the Tuesday
afternoon, wearing a somewhat flushed and
frowning countenance.

Mrs. Devereux Smith is in bed with the
influenza! " he cried. " It does not really
matter. Her two little girls will come."

" Ma! " shouted Louisa.

Mary agreed there was nothing to be
done. Louisa slipped out of the room, and
appeared no more till tea time. Then she
was silent— except that twice she remarked:

" Ma, your cough's much better. Ma, it's
as good as gone."

" Yes, I think you really are much better,"
said little Mary. She had just said it over
again on the Wednesday morning, sitting by

LITTLE MARY. 129

her mother — the morning of the day preced-
ing the bazar — ^when the housemaid brought
in the telegram.

" For me? " cried little Mary in astonish-
ment. She opened the missive and read:

" Come at once. Polly ill."

" There's no signature," said little Mary.
The paper dropped from her hand. Her voice
shook. There were tears in her eyes. " I had
better go," she said steadily. And that very
afternoon she went, having written a hurried
note of hot apology to the curate.

But, strangely enough, the curate was at
the station, as it happened he must travel by
the same train to Ripon. What! had he not
mentioned it yesterday? He supposed he
must have forgotten it.

Little Mary was in a great flutter of sor-
row and nervousness. She had left her moth-
er ailing, though not seriously, as Louisa had
repeatedly pointed out. She felt certain that
her godchild, before such a summons would
be sent from London, must lie at the point of
death. She hardly expected to see Polly
alive; she in no case expected to see her re-
stored. Mary's was a brave nature, but it
never could be called a hopeful one.

She sat in the railway compartment, alone

I30

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

with the curate, looking steadfastly out, a
gray mist before her eyes. And presently she
' began to talk for the sake of not feeling the
silence.

She expressed her great regret at break-
ing her promise to help him with to-mor-
row's show. " She was as bad as Mrs. Smith,"
she said, smiling; as bad as Mrs. Devereux
Smith, and without Mrs. Devereux Smith's
excuse. But never mind, he would have a far
better helpmate in Louisa. Yes, yes; they
had managed about Louisa; for once Jane
must take care of her mistress. They could
not desert him altogether; and, after all, she
smiled again, a little archly, " Louisa "

" True, true; but I want to speak of some-
thing else," he said.

She looked at him, not without surprise,
and began about the good work out yonder
— in the Carribean Islands. She waxed elo-
quent with nervous feminine enthusiasm
about the great pioneer of progress, the
strong-hearted and strong-limbed apostle.

"Yes; oh! yes," said Eric Brass, twirling
his wide-awake between his long legs; "but
I should like to speak of something else! "

She opened her mild eyes wider; the cor-
ners of her sweet mouth twitched. " Well? "
she said, " let us talk about my poor niece
Polly. I fear she is very ill, poor child. She

LITTLE MARY.

131

is such a dear little creature; you can not
imagine, Mr. Brass^ "

" No! " he cried, maddened at the thought
that, at any moment, a stoppage might end
their tete-a-tetCy " but I wish you would allow
me to speak of something else."

"Allow you!" she cried — the tears sank
away in her voice, and she laughed out-
right.

" Any subject you like, Mr. Brass; but
please choose for yourself! You're the most
difficult man in the world to please, or my
name isn't Mary Bates! "

" I wish it were something else," he said,
his face all crimson, and then he asked her
to marry him.

When she answered at last, she said very
softly: " I thought it was Louisa."

The curate could not deny that at first he
had paid some slight attention to Louisa, but
since he had got to know Mary well he had
made up his mind to marry Mary.

When she answered, after a still longer
wait, she said more softly still: " And Louisa
thought it was she."

The curate looked, as men do, a little
guilty and a great deal more annoyed.

".JLouisa thinks it is she," continued little
Mary tremulously; "and, besides, you mustn't
look at me, Mr. Brass. I — I shall never marry.

X32

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

I can not leave my mother. And — and, if at
any time, my mother — I — I could never leave
Louisa. Mother and Louisa are quite inca-
pable of looking after themselves. You could
hardly believe how much of the home work
devolves on me. It sounds like praising one-
self — I should say it to no one else — but I
can't be missed at home. Men have no con-
ception of such things, but my mission is, I
think, at home, Mr. Brass; every one must do
his own life-work, mustn't he? "

" Yes, and take up his cross," he answered
savagely.

" And take up his cross," admitted Mary,
as cheerfully as she could, " and try to dis-
cover the most comfortable manner of carry-
ing it. But Louisa " Then for the rest of

their common journey she praised Louisa,
truthfully putting forward all the bright
points she had carefully hunted up during
nearly twenty years. She pitied Louisa deep-
ly at this moment, for she knew that Louisa's
dreams of the future were built upon Eric
Brass. So she eagerly, though indirectly,
pleaded her sister's cause, and when the curate
left the train it was under the conviction that
he could not, unless he were the vilest of
mortals, break his faith to so estimable a spin-
ster as poor Louisa Bates. '* I am sure she
likes you very much," said Mary, holding his

LITTLE MARY.

133

hand in parting. " Of course I can say no

more."

" She has told you? " asked the curate, a
little ruefully.

Again Mary could not suppress an over-
brimful smile. ** Not exactly," she answered.
" Louisa does not speak much to me about
such things. But I can guess a good deal.
Do you know, Mr. Brass, I fear you are par-
tial to flirting! "

The curate's soul turned faint within him.
" I would wrong no one," he said earnestly —
she loosened her hand, for the carriage moved
away.

She cried a good deal on her lonely run
to London; but, then, her nerves were un-
strung by anxiety, and to every woman the
vision is dear of a home, whose clustering chil-
dren call her " mother " — a home in which,
with a busy welcome, she waits for the daily
return of the one man she loves and admires.
That was over.

She took a cab at the terminus — a growler
(no hansoms for little Mary) — and innocently
begged the man to drive fast. She looked
up eagerly at the house on approaching it.
" How is she? " — the words leaped from her
lips.

" Who? She? " replied the servant, a
new one.

134

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

"Miss Polly! My niece!"

A shriek rang down the staircase, as Polly
tore down into the arms of her favourite aunt.
Dear, dear Aunty May," cried Polly.
Dear, dear Aunty May!"

But, Polly, youVe been ill," gasped the
frightened aunt.

Polly stood away.

" Yes," she said, " ill and naughty. It was
plums."

" Oh ! that was three weeks ago, I remem-
ber. But yesterday "

Polly shook her head.

" No, miss, begging your pardon," inter-
rupted the servant, eager to make amends,
" there's been nothing wrong with Miss Polly,
miss." Then Polly's mother came out of the
drawing-room, and gradually little Mary
began to understand that she had been
hocussed; that the telegram was a bogus
telegram, sent to get her away before the
bazar.

Well, as I am here," she said calmly,
I shall stay till to-morrow night. The sale
opens at two in the afternoon. No, don't,
Selina! I should never have thought it of
Louisa; still, you see, she wanted so desper-
ately to sell at the stall. Let us tMk of some-
thing else."

But that evening she went up to her room

LITTLE MARY. 135

and thought it all out. The removal of Mrs.
Devereux Smith had doubtless rendered
Louisa desperate. Still, this action was a
crime. No, she could never have believed
such wickedness possible in her sister. After
much cogitation and prayer, she sat down,
very pale, and wrote to the curate, begging
him to forget that morning's conversation,
never again to think of Louisa as a possible
wife, nor, need it be said, of herself. In the
simplest and kindest way she stated the facts
which had just come to her knowledge. " I
owe it to him," she said resolutely, with an-
guish at her heart. " I can not undertake the
responsibility of what I said this morning in
ignorance. No, the woman who could do
such a thing is not a fit wife for Eric Brass."
She got the letter posted that night, and then
she pretended to sleep.

On the following afternoon she returned,
getting back after dark. All the time she
thought of Louisa with Eric at the sale, and
hoped that her letter would have reached him
in time. Never will she forget that terrible
journey.

As she arrived at the house, the servant,
Jane, ran hurriedly to meet her. " Oh, come
up, miss, immediately!" cried Jane. "Oh,
thank God, you've come home, miss! " Little
Mary understood at once what had happened,

136 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

just as she had always expected it would; for
life is like that.

" Missis is lying so still; she won't speak
to me; I almost wish she would cough, miss,"
said the servant behind her on the staircase.
Little Mary bent over her mother. ** She's
been coughing a great deal all day," whispered
the servant. ** Miss Louisa's away at the sale
and was not to be sent for, she said, without
reason. I was just about making up my
mind "

" Run for the doctor," said Mary.

But she did all that could be done long
before the doctor came, and when he said.
Failure of the heart's action," she only said
Yes." She had always known it would be
like this. Some day her mother's panting
heart would suddenly stand still. It would be
in one of those moments when Mary was not
in the house.

She still sat sorrowful by the dark bedside,
benumbed with loss, when, late at night,
Louisa, in Mary's festive garments, burst into
the room.

"Ma!" she cried; "only fancy, I'm en-
gaged. You can't think to whom! "

Mary got up. " Mother is dead," she said.
Louisa broke into noisy crying.

" Louisa," said Mary presently, " I forgive
you; I don't know whom you got to send

LITTLE MARY. 137

that lying telegram from London; I shouldn't
care to find out if I could. Good-night. I
am very tired. There is nothing to be
done at this hour. We shall meet in the
morning."

" I — I'm engaged to Eric Brass," sobbed
Louisa.

But next morning, in the midst of all the
inevitable commotion caused by the bereave-
ment, came two angry epistles from the cu-
rate (who had not yet heard), one for each of
the sisters. He had found Mary's letter on
getting back from a long day's work at the
sale. And he wrote at once, in all his mor-
tification, expressing the hope that here their
acquaintance might end.

" The loathsome creature," said Louisa
between her tears. " I suppose he got drunk
last night, like all total abstainers! " But sud-
denly she started to her feet. " You told him
about the telegram! " she cried.

" Yes," said little Mary.

"I hate you! I detest you! Wicked,
spiteful thing! I shall never, never, though
we live together for fifty years, never speak to
you again!" Louisa rushed past her sister
and out of the room.

A little later Jane, the housemaid, solic-
ited an interview of Miss Mary.

" Please, Miss Mary," she said, " I should
10

138 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

take it as a favour if you would tell me as soon
as anything is decided for the future, miss."

" There is not much to decide/ said little
Mary. "-My sister and I will go on living
here, I presume."

" Then please, Miss Mary, I should like to
look for another situation," said Jane.

But she came up that night to little
Mary's bedroom, with red eyes, and begged
her pardon. She would like to stay with Miss
Mary, she said.

" Yes, I think you ought to stay with me,
Jane," said little Mary thoughtfully. " Yes,
Jane, I do think you ought to stay with me."

JOHN.

John was a Dutchwoman.

Well, no, she was hardly a woman — ^a mere
slip of a girl. When I first saw her she was a
hobbledehoy.

" Yes, my daughter is a very great trouble
to me," said her mother, Mevrouw Barends;
** a source of continual vexation. She is
rougher and noisier, I think, than the four
boys put together. Well, perhaps that is only
my fancy. You see, you hear a girl's whis-
tling, and you hardly hear a boy's. But all
my governesses leave me; you see, she makes
apple-pie beds for them and booby traps and
puts cobbler's wax on their chairs, and good-
ness only knows what more she does! She is
certainly most wild and reckless. ' Madam,'
said my last but one English governess to
me — poor little worn-out creature — * I can do
nothing, madam, with your daughter. She
is Satan's daughter. Sin! ' "

*' Surely that was rather rude to you," I
ventured.

139

I40

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" But a little judicious training " be-
gan my aunt.

** Training? How, pray, would you train
a girl of sixteen? My husband trains the four
boys with a cane till they tremble in their
shoes. But he makes the queerest distinc-
tions; even when she was a tiny baby he would
allow nobody to slap the girl."

" Certainly not," said my aunt, with some
heat.

" Well, what will you have? The boys
never get into any mischief at all; John, the
tomboy, never seems out of it." I suppose
my aunt understood it was hopeless to dis-
cuss her favourite hobby, pedagogy, with
Mrs. Barends.

" The boys, then, I suppose," she said,
" are good at their books? "

Stout Mevrouw Barends heaved a com-
fortable sigh. " Well, no," she said, '* I can
not say they are. None of them learn well;
their masters are full of complaints. But
what will you have? They know they are the
children of Jan Barends. Their bread is but-
tered, they think, in this world."

" Riches make unto themselves wings! "
said my aunt sententiously. " In our day,
they flash away along the telegraph ! "

Mevrouw Barends smiled complacently,
folding her fat hands across her stiff silk dress.

JOHN. 141

"Very true," she said. "Oh, very true!
Only last week there was Porder & Sons failed
for a million! "

And the two ladies went off into eager dis-
cussion of the details which had got known
about Mevrouw Porder's destitution. Mean-
while I reflected on the peculiarities, as far
as I knew them, of this strange girl, John
Barends,

Her real name was, of course, not John.
I believe, but I am not sure, that it was Annie.
In the nursery, her brothers, weary of her de-
mands to be a boy, had, with much ceremony
and unconscious profanity, solemnly rechris-
tened her '* John." It was their father's name ;
none of them bore it; they thus remedied
what the family had always considered an
oversight.

Three of John's brothers were her jun-
iors; one was two years older. They were, all
of them, fair, mealy skinned, lanky, unremark-
able lads.

They overdressed for their age, with
smart neckties, and gave themselves airs, as
far as they dared, at their various day schools.
Their father was an India merchant, reported,
and proved, by his splendid style of living, to
be exceedingly wealthy. His big head and fine
presence were important features in the pub-
lic life of the city; he had long been a member

142 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

of the town council and of various commit-
tees, charitable, artistic, educational; every-
body stepped out of his way, or waylaid him.
He was a stern man and a just, ready to do
a good action sooner than a kind one. His
sons were mortally afraid of him, his daugh-
ter loved him with the strong love that cast-
eth out fear.

A strange, big, handsome girl, this John,
with her father's firm features and curly black
hair, very unlike her flabby mother, whom she
pitied, often petted, and habitually almost
despised. "Accomplishments!" said John.
" I hate accomplishments. 'Mamma says a
lady's education should be nothing but ac-
complishments. Then leave out the accom-
plishments, say I. Mamma's learned music;
she can't play. She's learned drawing; she
can't draw, she doesn't pretend to. Why, the
other day, at Aunt Mary's, somebody asked
her to play a polka for the children. * Oh, I
couldn't; I really couldn't,' she said. She was
quite in a flurry. And once, when she drew
a dog to aipuse Tommy he thought it was a
cow!"

There was a long pause; John sat think-
ing. " I suppose she could dance," spoke the
shapely mouth at last, *' if she weren't so
stout. But then, I know how to dance with-
out learning. Any one could learn how to

JOHN. 143

dance just by seeing it done. And the dan-
cing master says I do it capitally, if only I
could remember not to thump!"

John sighed, and dangled her long legs
from the appletree branch she was perched
upon.

" Accomplishments is idiotic, isn't it? "
she said.

*' Undoubtedly," I replied, for I had got
her eldest brother Gerard to present me, and,
in fact, I was stretched along the grass under
the " Princesse Noble." That was the name
of the apple.

" I mean unless of course they — that is to
say, one of them — happens to be your voca-
tion. Then, that one! "

" I understand, you think you are called to
be a dancing mistress? "

" Of course not. I haven't the slight-
est idea of what might have been my vo-
cation. But mamma says that I can't have
one."

"Why not?"

" She says a vocation is unladylike. To
be Miss Barends, she says, is my vocation!
What I like is arithmetic; stiff sums with a
lot of complications in them — compound in-
terest. And bookkeeping! I love book-
keeping—especially finding out errors! "

" What do you know, dear young lady, of

144

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

bookkeeping? Do you mean keeping books
that were lent to you? "

" I am not a young lady, and if I were, I
shouldn't be a dear — ^at all events, not yours.
And you needn't make feeble jokes. I did
all my brother Gerard's tasks for him at the
School of Commerce; he would never have
got on if I hadn't."

" And did Gerard do your needlework? "

" No, don't laugh at my brother; I won't

stand it. Gerard offered to touch up my

drawing for me — he draws very prettily — ^but

I wouldn't have it. I thought it would be

mean."

But it wasn't mean for you to do his
work? I don't quite follow your argument."

" I'm not arguing; I hate arguments.
The two things are quite different. A woman
has to help men. They'd never get along if
she didn't."

" True," I answered meekly. " They help
us into the world, and they hurry us out."

"Huh!"

" Good-bye, Miss John."

What happened that evening I heard from
Alfred, the third brother, aged ten. At
least, with youthful ingenuousness, he told
me as much as he considered judicious.

It appears that Mademoiselle Doucillon,
John's latest French governess, had frequent-

JOHN. 145

ly expressed with perfunctory eagerness her
horror of ' the men.' Her feelings were there-
fore naturally fluttered when, entering her
room in the twilight, she found a great drunk-
en fellow sprawling, snoring, across the bed.
Without stopping to inquire how a dummy
could snore, she filled the house with her
screams. Everybody came running out into
the corridor, and the children enjoyed the
sight of their father in exceedingly undigni-
fied undress.

After dinner John was called into the
drawing-room. She knocked up against a
little table as she entered. Her father and
mother exchanged glances. They sat on both
sides of the mantelpiece and looked exactly
as a naughty girl's father and mother ought
to look.

" John," began Mynheer Barends sternly,
" this soit of thing can not continue."

" What sort of thing, papa? " asked John
sweetly. Then, afraid that the question par-
took somewhat of subterfuge, " Oh, you mean
about the dummy. I have begged mademoi-
selle's pardon. Whoever thought a big wom-
an would be afraid of a doll? "

" Whoever thought a big girl — of sixteen
— ^would play such idiotic pranks? "

" Such disgraceful, unladylike pranks,"
put in Mevrouw Barends.

146 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

Yes," said John submissively.
In fact, your behaviour has simply be-
come unendurable," continued the lady with
some anger, " and, as the only solution, we
shall send you to school ! "

"To school?" echoed John. "Oh I papa,
do you think that would be good for me? "

" It would be good for the boys," said
Mevrouw Barends grimly.

" It would be good for the boys," echoed
Mynheer. " You make the grossest abuse of
your immunity as a girl. If one of the boys
were to permit himself a tenth of the mischief
you perpetrate I should flog him within an
inch of his life."

"True; I had forgotten the boys," ad-
mitted John, more meekly still.

" Poor little Alfred and Tommy must be
spared your evil example," said the mother.
They are dear boys," replied John.
Papa, don't decide just yet about my going
to school. Somehow, I don't think it would
be good for me. Let me speak to the boys
and tell them not to follow my evil example."

" Anne, you are impertinent ! " exclaimed
her mother.

John stared in open-mouthed amazement.
Then she said: " But, mamma, after all they
dofCt follow my example. You say so your-
self! "

JOHN. 14;

"Leave the room!" replied her mother.
Mynheer Barends pompously sighed acquies-
cence. John crept away, and found the three
elder boys waiting outside.

" Come to the schoolroom, all of you," she
said.

They gathered in solemn conclave. John
mounted on the back of a chair.

" Boys," she said, " I am going to board-
ing school." A shout of protest arose.

" Hush, you will wake Tommy! He is so
small, he doesn't count. Yes, I am to be sent
to a boarding school — for playing tricks." A
deathly silence followed.

" Not, mind you, for being unladylike,",
continued John, nodding her black head, " nor
for being untidy and tearing my clothes and
upsetting things and making blots. To all
these I plead guilty. But for playing tricks.
Well, I like tricks. They're great fun some-
times. Ah, me! " — ^she heaved a deep sigh,
and looked up wistfully to the schoolroom
ceiling — " how I used to enjoy them once! "

None of the three boys spoke; they were
busily inspecting their boots.

" At boarding school," mused John, " I
shall have to be proper all day. You can't
jump down the stairs, two steps at a time, at
boarding school. At boarding school they
teach all the girls to behave like Cousin Sue."

148 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

A smile crossed three grave faces at the
thought of John's behaving like that very af-
fected little lady, Cousin Sylvia, whom " those
aggravating children " had nicknamed Sue.

" I propose,'* began Gerard solemnly,
** that we all go to father and promise to be
sureties for John's good behaviour." He
looked meaningly at his two young brothers.
" We will promise that she won't play any
more tricks."

** I feel nervous," said Alfred.

" Oh, indeed! " exclaimed John. " I'll go
with you! "

" No; you stop here," commanded Gerard,
who was eighteen, and wore an incipient
mustache. The three boys marched of? to
the drawing-room and interviewed their par-
ents. They were very affectionate and affect-
ing. Alfred remembers that when he accepted
the responsibility for John's reformation he
placed his right hand on his heart.

" Very well," said their father, touched,
and bearing down Mevrouw Barends* objec-
tions; " but the first time anything of the
kind occurs again, she goes! "

The boys trooped out. John, disdaining
eavesdropping, had posted herself at the far-
ther end of the hall.

" And now, you youngsters, listen to me,"
said Gerard; " the first time a practical joke

JOHN. 149

occurs in this house again Til buy a cane and
lick you worse than my father would."

There was a moment of awed silence, then
Alfred burst out: ** You used to ''

** Never mind what I used to. There was
no talk of boarding schools for John in those
days."

John demonstratively kissed her three
brothers in spite of their opposition, rump-
ling their hair, as was her wont. " If I could
hate you for anything," said Gerard, "it would
be, John, for rumpling my hair."

" I haven't damaged the back parting,"
replied John; "it's lovely, the back parting.
Like a path that ends in a bush."

" Go and wash your hands; there's ink on
them," angrily retorted Gerard.

" And bear's grease," answered John, run-
ning oflf. " Never mind, Freddy; don't look
glum. You can always start business under
your ozmt name, if you choose " — she popped
her head back through the schoolroom door —
" and ask papa to make up the accounts! "

Then for several weeks all went well. At
least the mischief John got into was all of her
own concocting. She tried, untaught, her
brother's bicycle, and damaging the machine
considerably, damaged herself still more. Her
sprained wrist rendering her especially awk-
ward, she poured a whole torrent of beer over

I50 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

her mother's dress, and broke a glass on her
toilet table. And being taken by Gerard, for
comfort, a sail in his sailing boat she fell into
the water. Mademoiselle Doucillon, who was
the only " authority " apprised of this mishap,
foolishly promised to keep the secret — after
much eager pleading on the part of all the
boys — and then still more foolishly betrayed
it. Two days later a most interesting portrait
in mademoiselle's bedroom, a young French-
man in military uniform, mysteriously disap-
peared. John indignantly protested against
the charge of having committed an action her
womanly instincts characterized as " mean be-
yond words." Nevertheless, her parents de-
cided to take a step for which reasons abound-
ed, and the young lady departed to a superior
establishment, whose horrified proprietress
hardly recognised her as such. On the even-
ing of her departure Gerard, who surely was
all weakness and good nature, actually carried
out his threat. To this circumstance Alfred
never alluded. But he has confided to me his
conviction that, in the days when the two
elders were as little as he was, few tricks (of
the many) had been perpetrated for which any
one was thrashed. " Catch Gerard taking his
share!" the young gentleman added spite-
fully. I felt he was right, but I thought it
judicious to say, " You are biassed." He in-

JOHN. 151

quired what was the meaning of this word,
and, on the spur of the moment, I gave him
an apposite answer, which, however, I dare
not set down.

John wrote cheerful letters from school,
and her mistress sent reports which at first
described her as lamentably deficient in all the
acquirements a young girl of her position
ought to have possessed. Then, gradually,
the school took unto itself the credit of in-
cipient " improvement." When she came
back for the holidays, the anxious boys, in
response to her anxious questions, said they
did not see it. She breathed a great sigh of
relief and tumbled down her back hair, which
had been made to grow into a " bob." But
her father, who she thought was looking red
and congested, and her mother, who was
grown fatter than ever, nodded approval to
each other. " She is growing up handsome,"
said Mevrouw Barends.

" She was always handsome," replied the
merchant. " I hope she will marry well."
The friend who was dining with them laughed
at this idea. He was Barends' great rival in
the India trade of the city — his one rival, his
one friend.

I beg your pardon," said Nicholas Brook,
but it seems so absurd a conception! One
can hardly realize, as yet, a Mrs. John! "

152 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" She is nearly eighteen," replied the mer-
chant, nettled. ** That, of course, seems an
infantine age to a bachelor past forty."

" Hovering — hovering on the edge! "
cried Nicholas Brook.

" To cavil at your age is to confess your-
self old," replied Barends. " Do you know, it
is very extraordinary. Brook, the one thing
that girl appears to be clever at is sums! She
doesn't care tuppence for literature, poetry,
and so on, her schoolmistress says. But she's
good at all practical work, and at arithmetic."

" Not at sewing," put in Mrs. Barends.

" Of course, I know. I know all about
your children as much as yourself," replied
Brook. " Haven't I seen them grow up?
You will have to put John in business," he
laughed.

" Gerard won't be much good there," re-
plied the merchant, and sighed.

Mrs. Barends rose from table. " You have
had wine enough, Jan," she said. " Don't
take any more."

" Why, nonsense! I've only drunk three
glasses of claret."

" The doctor doesn't allow you more than
two."

" Oh, the doctor — ^what rubbish! Doc-
tors always grudge you any drink that tastes
good!"

JOHN. 153

But a few months later John was sud-
denly called away from school by the tidings
of her father's death in a fit.

She rushed back — some people's thoughts
rush on such occasions, some people's lag —
she rushed back and fell, heart foremost, into
a scene of more than ordinary confusion.
Death has a horrible habit of pulling away, in
our card structures, the very card on which
the whole edifice hangs. He is an artist in his
way; there exists no more picturesque ar-
ranger of ruins.

Mevrouw Barends, utterly bewildered and
shaken, sat in the darkened drawing-room
weeping noisy tears. A sense of her widow's
importance was upon her; and in this, as in a
woollen garment, she wrapped her shivering
desolation. She was one of those women
whose social assumption and household
aplomb are borne up on a flow of continuous
■ prosperity, one of those magnificent dahlias
whose husband is the pot. " Oh, Annie," she
said weeping; " oh, dear Annie, the burgomas-
ter's wife has already called! "

On the dining-rooni sofa lay Gerard, white

and interesting. In the schoolroom the two

boys were quarrelling over postage stamps.

When John entered they both simultaneously

gave way, and Alfred went to build up bricks

for little Tommy.
II

154 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Who is doing things? *' John asked
Gerard, when she had cried her cry and got
calm. She sat on the table in the dining-room
opposite Gerard's sofa.

" What things? Oh! nobody. We're ex-
pecting Uncle George."

" Uncle George is no good," replied John
emphatically.

" Well, he's all we've got. Never was a
family had so few connections. Mamma
with no brothers at all, and papa with only
Uncle George."

" Uncle George can't lace his own boots! "
exclaimed John impatiently. " You know
papa always used to say so. Uncle George
can just live in his sleepy village and read his
Latin books. He'll sit with mamma and sigh.
Somebody must act, now papa's dead 1 "

" Oh, John! how can you be so coarse? "
said Gerard, and the tears came into his pale-
blue eyes.

She left him in disgust, and went to find
the family butler. Fortunately, that domestic
had been with them many years, and had be-
come, so far as Mevrouw Barend's fretful mas-
terfulness would allow, a bit of a factotum.
" Do you know what has to be done? " she
asked with a gulp. " Then tell me." And to-
gether they got everything ready for the
widow's approval. That lady suggested a

JOHN. 155

number of impractical alterations, said John
was unfeeling, and finally acquiesced in all the
arrangements she afterward declared to have
been unsuitable in themselves or erroneously
carried out. Uncle George came and sat by
his sister-in-law in the dreary drawing-room.
He sighed so seldom that John could not help
feeling a little aggrieved.

And the first few solemn days passed by,
amid a downpour of perfunctory sympathy,
a good deal of public notice, and much semi-
official mourning. When the grand funeral
was over, the Barendses began to realize that
it is easy for an active man to know every-
body, to be generally esteemed and univer-
sally regretted — and that that is all.

It was no surprise to John to find Gerard
shedding tears one morning, all by himself,
in his father's room.

He started up. " What do you mean

by ?" he began. "What " He sank

back into his chair. "Look at these!" he said,
with a sweep of his hand across a whole floor
of papers spread out before him. " I can't
make head or tail of these! "
What are they? "

A lot of business letters and things sent
up from the office."

" Of course," she said, " the office. I quite
understand."

156 SOME WOxMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Do you? I wish you did."

" Why don't you ask somebody to help
you, Gerard? "

" There's only one man could help me, and
he's our chief rival. Papa told me never to
speak to him about the business."

" You mean Nicholas Brook? I wonder
papa should say that. I like Mr. Brook. In
these days he has been as kind as an outsider
could be."

" Oh, you talk, because you know nothing
of business! Only a girl or a fool would ask
advice of a rival."

Without answering, she drew some of the
papers toward her and began studying them.
He would have pulled them away. " Oh, non-
sense!" he said. ** You can't understand.
We shall have to sell the business or some-
thing! "

"Sell the business!" she cried, facing
round.

" Yes, of course. I've been telling mother.
It'll be an awful loss, but it can't be helped! "

" And what'U you do? "

" Nothing, I suppose. I must see.
There'll be enough, I should think, for all
of us to live on." She swept all the docu-
ments into her arms and went off to her bed-
room.

Half an hour later she looked in upon her

JOHN. 157

brother. He was lying on the sofa with a
book.

" I don't understand them all/' she said.
** I understand a good deal. Fm going down
to the office to talk with Mynheer Perk."
He started up with angry opposition, but al-
ready she had closed the door and was gone.

She went straight to the office, and asked
for Mynheer Perk. She found the book-
keeper in her father's private room, and quite
unconsciously seated herself in her father's
place to discuss the morning's post and the
general state of affairs.

" Mynheer Perk," she said, " it surely
would be absurd to stop the business? "

For a moment there arose before the de-
pendent's eyes a brilliant vista of a unique
opportunity. He waited one second, and
then said, resolutely: " Most certainly, it
would be disastrous." Then he added: " And
yet Mynheer Gerard "

" Mynheer Gerard ? "

"You see, Juffrouw, there is only Mynheer
Gerard."

She got up, went to the dull window,
looked out on the dull court.

" You and we must keep on the business
together,*' she said. " I could do the book-
keeping, at least some of it ; I can learn more.
And Gerard must get into it also. He will.

158 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

if we don't press him. Just now he is too
nervous. I will talk it over with Mynheer
Gerard, Mynheer Perk."

She held out her hand, and the funny little
middle-aged fogy bent over it with a bow
which he felt was a success.

Much talking, however, had to ensue be-
tween the parties concerned, and many objec-
tions had to be fought down before the
widow, her children, and the old bookkeeper
could agree as to how things should work. It
was figures did it in the end, as on most simi-
lar occasions — hard plus and minus, for and
against. John, with Perk's aid, figured out in
black and white what the sale of the business
would mean to the family. They were not so
rich as they had always believed themselves
to be. The three younger children were still
at school. Brought face to face with the facts,
Mevrouw Barends consented, and John very
quietly, undramatically, settled down as best
she could to the unwelcome routine of the
office. For, when the first excitement was
over and the veiled curiosity of the clerks had
subsided, the life, to a restless creature like
John, was most wearily monotonous. Gerard
came, out of regard for his sister, but was
really no good. John emphatically was.
" She has the regular business instinct," said
little Mynheer Perks. " I could not have

JOHN. 159

managed without her. Honestly, I confess,
I have not the business instinct. I am too
nervous. I have not sufficient initiative. /
am an excellent bookkeeper. Now, she thinks
that is her forte; she is mistaken. She is
accurate enough, but. Mynheer Brook, she
makes blots! " He threw up his hands in hor-
ror. Nicholas Brook had listened silently,
with a smile. He had offered assistance some
weeks ago to Gerard, but had been excitedly,
and therefore almost rudely, repulsed. He
still called from time to time, but more rarely,
for Mevrouw Barends had been taught by
Gerard to look upon " the rival " with suspi-
cion. The lad, in his nervousness and incom-
petence, buried his head in the sand. John,
meanwhile, plodded on. Once Brook had
ventured to chaff her.

" Don't," she said; " I like you, but don't.''
And he had immediately desisted.

Mevrouw Barends sighed. "Annie has
thrown away," she said, " what chances of
marriage she may possibly have had ! Nobody
would marry a queer girl Hke that."

Meanwhile the business remained fairly
prosperous; yet John's end and ambition
seemed defeated, for Gerard, instead of grow-
ing into his responsibilities, slunk away from
them more and more.

And a period of crisis came for the India

l6o SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

trade, especially for that branch represented
by Barends & Sons. Jan Barends had been
largely mixed up with a new system of sugar *
production in Java; a couple of factories with
entirely novel machinery (the *'Ruffschmidt "
process, now so famous) had been started
under his auspices and worked with his capi-
tal. They were barely in working order when
the so-called sugar panic arose. To keep the
thing going, to make it, almost certainly, a
success, more money was wanted — ninety
thousand florins — at once. It was almost im-
possible at that moment to get that sum.
With one sugar plantation ruined after an-
other, with prices daily melting down before
German beet root, the Indian banks refused
advances at any price. John could under-
stand this, as well as Mynheer Perk, and, as
one denial after another was telegraphed to
the office, she sat pale before her books.

"Didn't I tell you so?" cried Gerard, nerv-
ously sniggering. " It was madness for me to
go on with the business! And now we are
ruined!"

Not ruined yet," said John.

Very nearly," said little Mynheer Perk.

You have telegraphed to the Batavian
and Borneo Banking Company," said John.
'* They haven't answered yet. Meanwhile,
Gerard, please let me write my letters." She

n
((

JOHN. i6l

turned away to the papers before her and
began to scribble away. An hour later the
telegram was brought to the office. They all
three gathered together to read it. The Ba-
tavian company accepted, on mortgage and a
high rate of interest, arduous terms.

" Well, that's all right then," said Gerard.

" For the moment," muttered Mynheer
Perk.

" We must do all we can," said John.
" The terms are bad, but they might have
been worse."

Mynheer Perk went off to the exchange
for his daily visit ; meanwhile the young people
worked on. They were not prepared for the
state of excitement in which the frigid little
man returned. " Do you know," he said,
as he closed the glass door, " who has done
this thing? No. You would never guess! "

" Nicholas Brook," answered John.

" How? You knew! " cried the little man,
disappointed, amazed.

" No, I guessed," replied John.

" Then our ruin," groaned Gerard, " is
only a question of time. At the earliest op-
portunity he will sell up — foreclose! "

** So I suppose," acquiesced Mynheer
Perk; " it is a very clever stroke of business.
It renders him absolute master of the sugar
market here."

1 62 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

John got down from her stool. " I don't
believe it," she said; " I don't understand. I
am going to ask him."

Gerard stretched out his arm. " Don't be
a fool! " he said. " You're always meddling
and bothering. Why can't you do your bit of
work, and leave the worry to me and Perk? "

John stopped with her hat already on. ** I
believe he has done it out of sheer kindness,
or something," she said. " You don't want
to be beholden to him, do you? "

" N-n-no," replied Gerard.

" Sheer kindness, my dear young lady? "
cried Perk; " just look at the terms! "

" Well, if he means mischief "

" He must mean mischief," said Perk.

" I can give him a bit of my mind," con-
eluded John, and she fled.

She drove boldly to Nicholas Brook's
office, a thing she detested. What work she
had done in the firm she had always rigorously
done behind the scenes. " I typewrite for
Gerard," that was her explanation of her pres-
ence in the sanctum.

Nicholas Brook received her immediately
in his private room.

" What can I do for you, John? " he said
cheerfully.

'' Nothing," she answered stiffly. " That
was what I came to say."

JOHN. 163

" It isn't much to come for. But perhaps
you are hardly so busy at your place as we are
here? ''

" Don't sneer; that's one thing I can't
stand," replied John, her lip trembling.
" Rightly or wrongly, we are informed that a
considerable advance for which we applied to
a bank in India has been accorded us, through
them, by — you! I want to know if that's
true? "

" And supposing I refuse to answer your
question? "

" That will be sufficient answer. You re-
fuse? "

" No."

" You needn't, for your face has answered.
Now, I want to know why."

" You are too clever a reader of faces,
John. Positively dangerous."

" Do not laugh at me. God knows I am
not in a laughing mood. We are very nearly
ruined. Do you want to ruin us entirely? I
don't believe it."

"Does Gerard?"

" What I want to know is, why have you
done this action which looks cruel? . The
terms are terribly hard."

** Ah! you don't believe I could be really
cruel? Thanks."

I don't know. I don't understand," said

((

1 64 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

poor John, almost crying. " I could see the
enormous advantage of crushing our business.
Perhaps, if I were in your position, I might
do it myself."

" But you can't quite realize me in that
role, all the same. Thanks, again."

" After all, I don't think it very much mat-
ters. Gerard will never be good at the busi-
ness; certainly not unless he has far better
help than mine. But it's awful to think we
had better have stopped when father died."
And John began to cry in earnest. She
stopped almost at once. " Don't think I have
come here to move you by playing the cry-
baby," she said fiercely. " I don't want to
move you. But you're papa's old friend, and
I want to understand."

" You are perfectly correct in your as-
sumptions," replied Brook. "I want to absorb
the business." He spoke slowly, looking away
from her. She waited,. staring.

" It is absurd that these two should still
run side by side — still more that they should
fight each other. I intend, if you will allow
me, to become a partner in your business, if
you will become a partner in mine."

She bent forward, listening.

" I am growing old — I am one and forty.
You are nearly twenty, I believe. Of course,
I have some experience, and you have energy.

JOHN. 1 65

And you have a whole family to look after, so
in one sense I am younger than you. John,
darling, have I got you here at last? — ^you
brave, dear, queer girl — Gerard and you made
it impossible for me to help you decently.
You must either take me into partnership, or
go smash! "

" rd rather go smash, under the circum-
stances! " replied John, drawing back.

** No you wouldn't; you're too good a man
of business! It would be sheer waste of — of
everything, and a good business man never
wastes. But he ventures and — ^and look here!
Fm going to venture! " He caught her in
his arms and kissed her.

"And win! " he said.

" I — I should like to have been made love
to properly,'* said John.

He held her at arm's length. " John! " he
cried in protest, " 'tis the last thing you'd have
liked!"

" Mamma has always declared I should
never marry," replied John.

" For once, then, you must venture to con-
tradict her! " said Nicholas Brook.

MADAME DE LIANCOURT.

" You, now — you do ev«y thing wrong! "
said Monsieur de Liancourt.

Madame de Liancourt looked up from her
needlework. ** I have heard that so often,"
she answered, " it begins to lose its charm."

Monsieur de Liancourt threw himself back
in his big armchair by the bedroom fire, a
semi-goodnatured smile playing across his
handsome face. " It is a truth," he said, " we
have always with us! Hourly, under some
new aspect, it presents itself. At first, I am
astonished; then I know it again. Ah, I
say, welcome, it is you — la gaucherie de ma
femmel " He lay watching his wife through
the blue smoke of his cigarette — a pleasant-
looking man in his undress evening jacket,
florid, barely forty, still young and anxious to
look younger, a little bald at the top (oh, the
pity of it!), well preserved, and laboriously
groomed. " Ah, it is you," he repeated. " La
gaucherie de ma femme! "

Madame de Liancourt did not look up

i66

MADAME DE LIANCOURT. 167

again. " You spoil your effect entirely," she
said, ** by repetition." She was seven years
her husband's junior. Perhaps she was not
exactly a beautiful woman. Perhaps her su-
premely graceful figure was a thought too
tall; perhaps a slight ripple was wanting in
the smooth radiance of her golden hair. That
is possible. She possessed in absolute perfec-
tion the unfathomable quality we call " dis-
tinction," which birth and breeding solely and
rarely confer.

" Now, those ribbons! You are sewing
them all on wrong! " he said.

She threw down her work at once, quite
hopeless. " I have always said I never could
sew! " she cried.

" Let me arrange it for you," he answered,
and with nimble fingers he began festooning
the cherry-red bows on the white blouse she
was trying to alter. " You are a rich man's
daughter," he said, " and I was a poor man's
son. All the difference lies there. * Necessity
is the mother of invention ' — ah, how true!
And I — I have always been necessitous."

" We were brought up very simply,"
pleaded Madame de Liancourt.

" Of course, my dear. The highest luxury
is always simple. My father could never have
afforded to be so stin so frugal as yours."

" Papa has endless expenses. He is not

1 68 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

rich, as wealth goes nowadays. None of the
old families are rich that have only their land
to rely on."

" Ma ch^re, it is as if I heard your father
speaking. True, he is not rich compared with
these people, for instance, in whose house we
are staying. Still, there has always been
plenty at Faussinieres — rough plenty, I admit
— for you and your half-dozen brothers and
sisters."

"Ah, Faussinieres!" Madame de Lian-
court laid down her work in her lap, crump-
" ling it under the dull weight ^of her hands.

" Your ideal, I know! " replied her hus-
band, and stared at the gold-beaded slippers
upon his shapely feet. " A wild life in the
backwood — sl kingdom of Robinson Crusoe
among numerous Fridays! " He made a gri-
mace. " And when there comes a sail! a sail!
from Paris — to Paris — pretending not to see
it! Leave us in the desert, among the black
Fridays — we are kings — ^we are savages-
adieu! "

She laughed. " So be it," she said. " It
is not a good preparation for the fashionable
world."

His bright face grew grave. ** No, in-
deed," he said. She looked at him almost ap-
pealingly. " I," he went on, " I was never a
king, or a Crown Prince, like your brothers —

MADAME DE LIANCOURT. 169

are they all Crown Princes? — an officiars son,
myself an official of petty nobility; it is not
much, but undoubtedly it civilizes; the dwell-
ing in Paris, the growing up on the boule-
vards, the mixing with others! Even the
odious bureau — much as I detest it — one
meets people there; one hears things; one
knows how to behave."

" Ah, that is it — that I shall never know,"
said Madame de Liancourt.

" Foolishness! You are only a little * sav-
age,' and after seven years in Paris — true —
that is absurd! "

** To-night also, then," she said meekly,
" I have not succeeded in pleasing my lord
and master? "

He got up and began pacing the room.
How stupidly you put it ! " he exclaimed.
Who talks of pleasing me? It is you one
thinks of — your success in the world, your po-
sition — ^it is what they say that one cares
about, Madame de Liancourt ! "

" Raoul, when you go to these fashionable
parties, these shootings, you should send me
to Faussinieres."

" Almost I would vex myself! Will you
never then realize that you are no longer Lise
— what a name — de Barency?"

The tears sprang to her eyes. " You do

not even now, then, like my name! " she said.
12

I70 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

His back was turned to her. "Admit,"
he replied, " that it is frequent among the fe-
male Fridays of Faussinieres! "

" It is a pity,'* she said bitterly, " that my
mother did not, like the banker's woman here,
call her daughter Fredegonde! I fear she
knew hardly enough of the ancient history of
France."

He burst into a loud laugh. " No, no,"
he cried, " those sort of names are in execrable
taste. Even mine has got too common! But
Fredegonde de Schlopsmeyer — that is too
funny! And yet " — he paused — " I like these
people, I value them; they are of real impor-
tance. Everything in the house is perfect ; the
shooting is excellent ; there are a dozen of us
down for it, and all thoroughly enjoying our-
selves."

She sighed. " We will not discuss the
matter," she said. " We are here. I am very
glad that you enjoy it."

He paused in his walk. " I feel vou're not
enjoying it," he said.

" Why? That does not influence your ar-
rangements."

** Still, of course, I observe your dislike."

" It annoys you — I can not help that."

" Lise, you are very unkind."

" Oh, no! not that — not that."

" Worse — ^you are out of temper. I be-

MADAME DE LIANCOURT. 171

lieve that you actually object to my innocent
flirtations with Madame de Girondelle and —
and "

" For the moment there is no * and/ "
. " Fie! it is not so bad as that. There is
always an * and/ "

She laughed again, despite herself.

" If you only knew/' he continued, " how
ridiculous we both make ourselves. Had I
not flirtations, in this society, you would make
us both altogether impossible/'

Once more she dallied with her work.

"Oh, leave that thing!" he said impa-
tiently. " Let some maid do it. That's no
good, anyhow."

" What do you mean — that I make you
ridiculous? Surely, whatever may be my
shortcomings, I have never fallen short of the
respect which is due to your name."

" Ma chere, you talk like a last-century
novel. No, you have not fallen short of the
respect which is due to my name. Nobody
wants you to disgrace it. But it is your ultra-
respectability which renders us ridiculous —
voilA! "

" You speak in enigmas," she answered.

" Ah ! when a woman says that to her hus-
band, she has already begun to understand.
Quite so. Woman is the eternal enigma; she
can not be treated or treated of otherwise.

172

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

The fact remains that nowadays the woman
who does not dance on the brink of the preci-
pice is as little thought of as the woman who
has fallen over it."

" Pray dance! '* she said.

" You are illogical. As it happens, there
is no precipice for men — another enigma! But
certainly for me it is not pleasant to hear men
say: * Tiens, who is that? * and find they have
passed on without waiting for a reply."

" I can not help it if I am not beauti-
ful."

" Every woman can help it, to begin with,
if she have not some charm. As for beauty,
you are not less beautiful than most of the
women staying in this house."

'' Say ' all/ " she begged.

" You are exacting! "

" Yes, indeed ; there is Madame de Giron-
delle, whose name sounds like a cough loz-
enge! Si vous tousses "

** The Girondelles are one of the oldest
families of the Gironde," he replied with some
heat. " In all these matters you are lament-
ably Ignorant. Every word that you utter
about society shows that you have been
brought up entirely outside it."

" Where I should like to remain."

** You can not. We are too poor — voildf
With people like you and me society connec-

MADAME DE LIANCOURT. 173

tions are so much capital. Heavens! you
might be a power! "

" By my beauty, or by my knowledge of
pedigrees? "

" No; a thousand times, no! By what
makes a woman a power — savoir faire, savoir
plaire! By making yourself npticed, by hav-
ing men who are somebodies pay you atten-
tions, flatter you, speak of you. What use is
to a man his admiration of a wife whom no-
body else admires? In the end, he also ceases
to find cause for admiration. Tiens, I would
not have said that, but you provoke me! You
sit there among all these brilliant, foolish, de-
lightful women like "

"A Cinderella!"

" Who will never find a prince! "

" I fancied I had found him, but " — her
eyes kindled — " I fear he was a boor."

" Lise! "

She had risen. Shall we go to bed, mon
prince? " she said. ** It is one o'clock. Cin-
derella, especially before the godmother came,
kept earlier hours than that."

" You are always sleepy before any one
else is. It is a relic of Faussinieres, where
everybody sleeps all day in the eternal dulness
of the woods."

" Like the sleeping beauty," she answered,
kx>king away and speaking in- a toneless voice*

174

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

"Mind lest the wrong prince wakes me!'*
And after that they spoke no more.

Next morning Madame de Liancourt, a
little later than her husband — she was always
late — appeared at the noisy eleven o'clock
breakfast table. And the first thing she
heard was Fredegonde's Schlopsmeyer's
shrieky voice:

'* It is my idea! It is excellent! It shall
be!"

" La reine le veuty' said, with a lazy bow,
the Vicomte de Belvalette.

" Be silent ; I have not appointed you my
herald," replied the dark heiress coquettishly.
** The conditions are these. Every gentleman
will select his own buttonhole before dinner
this evening, without telling what it is, and
the lady who happens to wear the same flower
as any particular gentleman will dance with
him two out of every three dances to-night! "

" Oh, but no! Oh, but no! " cried several
voices in protest.

" Monsieur de Belvalette, I appoint you
my herald! "

" La reine le veut! *' exclaimed, with weary
pretence of pomposity, the Vicomte de Bel-
valette.

" If I understand aright," said Raoul de
Liancourt, bending* forward from his place,
" we may all select our flowers for ourselves

MADAME DE LIANCOURT.

175

— there are to be no buttonholes distributed
to-night — we may pick the flowers, if need be,
ourselves? "

"Yes, but none of us may see you; it is
secret; you may not tell."

"In other words, we are not to choose our
own partners? '•

" For once in a way — for two dances or
three — ^you are to trust to good fortune! "

"Good fortune, I!'* Monsieur de Lian-
court gave a groan.

" How flattering to your partner that is
to be!"

Everybody laughed; they were the usual
country-house crowd of the shooting season;
why should they not laugh? They had noth-
ing else to do.

" We may trust, in a certain degree, to
perspicacity," said one bald young viveur.

" Or to hints," said, languidly, Madame de
Girondelle.

The heiress struck her hand on the table.
" No hints! " she said angrily. " That would
be ungentlemanly, unfair. That would spoilt
it all. I will have no hints."

" Really? " Madame de Girondelle slowly
raised a toy eyeglass to her turquoise-blue
eyes. "You excite yourself, Freddy," she
said, and dropped her glass. ...

" Oh, I understand it of course," said

176 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

Raoul to his wife in their own room, where
he was leisurely preparing himself for a couple
of hours among the pheasants — they took
their shooting lazily these Schlopsmeyers; at
least in the intervals between the big battues.
" I understand it all. So probably do you? *'

" I have not that pleasure,** replied Ma-
dame de Liancourt, listlessly looking out of
the window; "understand what?"

" The little Schlopsmeyer,** he went on
impatiently; " she will wear Belvalette's fa-
vourite flower; oh! she will find out — trust a
woman to find out; it is his last day here —
he leaves to-morrow; she will dance with him
all night, and at last he will declare himself,
now or never; it is as plain, the whole thing,
as — as — the old Mamma Schlopsmeyer; noth-
ing could be plainer."

"Guy de Belvalette!" cried Madame de
Liancourt, and faced round from the window,
all her listlessness gone.

" Of course. Dear me! have you ob-
served nothing? Must I inform you that the
Schlopsmeyers have set their hearts on this
marriage? "

" It would break his mother's heart! '*

"Surely that has done breaking! When
a pious woman marries among the Belvalette
men, her heart can go on cracking like ice in
a thaw!"

MADAME DE LIANCOURT- 177

" Guy adores his mother, and she him — I
know it well.*'

True, you are some sort of relation? "
No, but Madame de Belvalette was my
mother's dearest friend. I have stayed with
them often. I used, long ago, to call Guy by
his name."

" That is an honour — the ' having called '
— which you share with many women. His
life is a series of stages, travelled post haste,
with a change of companion in the chaise at
each stoppage."

" I think you do him wrong."

" Wrong? Far from it. He is every
man's envy! And every woman's ambition!
The men bribe his tailors — the women? —
for a woman it is the baton de marechal
to have made the conquest of Guy de Bel-
valette."

" I do not see the glory."

" You? My dear, you have not even en-
listed. You are not of the army of conquest —
you! At the most, you are enrolled in the
garde civile, • You protect the hearth and the
home."

She turned red, still gazing out of the win-
dow, to which she had long ago returned.
" I will not believe," she said, " that the Vi-
comte de Belvalette "

" Who is worse than poor '*

178 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Will marry the daughter of Schlops-
meyer '*

" Who is more than rich. These, my dear,
are your backwood ideas. He will marry
her "

" It would be an infamy! *' she interrupted,
trembling with excitement.

" And she will be happy " — he paused in
the doorway with his g^n — " and Guy will
continue to make the social successes of the
woman he smiles upon! He will never make
yours! " The door closed sharply. Madame
de Liancourt stood by the window.

Presently, the colour still coming and go-
ing upon her cheeks, she drew herself up, with
the rapid movement of one who takes a pain-
ful but unchangeable resolve, and she passed
down into the noisy great hall with that
graceful sweep of her lissom figure which
many lovelier women might envy, and did.

She threaded her way straight to the Vi-
comte. ** Monsieur de Belvalette,'* she be-
gan. "Ah, you are going shooting!" — ^she
stopped.

The viscount turned his listless head.

" Every one is, madame, I believe,*' he
said. " If there were anything else, I should
be only too glad- '*

" No, no; I would not keep you from your
sport. But only, I had thought if you were

MADAME DE LIANCOURT.

179

weary — you had promised to show me that
drive, and to-morrow — — "

" To the Moulin du Gue? By all means!
It would be delightful. Let us slip away at
once! Ah, del '*

"Where are you off to, Guy? Do not
keep me waiting! ** Madame de Girondelle
interposed her little turn-up nose, " Freddy
will be angry. She was saying "

" Let her say, ma cousine! " The vicomte
was away to the stables in search of a trap; not
an easy thing to find, even in that luxurious
establishment, at the moment when every one
was starting for the day. Ultimately he
turned out with a second-rate dog cart into
the now deserted courtyard. Madame de
Liancourt stood awaiting him.

" You look charming,'' he said, perhaps
mechanically.

"Don't!" Her blood boiled with the
thought of her husband's scorn.

" I could not get a groom. Do you
mind? "

" Mind! Why? Surely you know all
about horses? "

" Less than most men. But it was not
that I meant. However, I can certainly drive
a more mettlesome steed than this. What an
excellent idea of yours! This is almost like
the old days at Belvalette,"

l8o SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" When your mother would never have
allowed anything of the kind."

" My mother is always right about
young girls; about married women she is al-
ways "

" Do not dare to say * wrong! ' '* They
were driving fast through the many-tinted
autumn beechwoods. He waited for a mo-
ment, flicking his whip.

" Right also," he said very gravely. " It
is good of you to come with me, ma-
dame."

" But you have promised "

And I never break my promises to-
Oh, Monsieur de Belvalette!
You."

Because you never made any but this —
which you had very nearly broken."

" Test me. If I make you a promise, I
swear I will not break it."

*' You talk like Herod. Well, then, give
me in a charger the head of "

" Whom? "

He turned to look at her.

" What nonsense! I hope, madame, your
mother is well? "

** Undoubtedly. This morning I am sure
she has said to her confessor: * Ah, mon pkre^
if my son would but range himself! ' "

" And the father confessor has answered :

MADAME DE LIANCOURT. i8l

* Ah, Madame la Vicomtesse, if he but ^
would!'"

** And here, at a hundred miles distance,
my cousin de Girondelle has echoed : * Ah,
dear friends, if he but would.' What beauti-
ful unanimity! If women would but spend
upon their own affairs a tenth of the energy
they devote "

** Monsieur de Belvalette, you are becom-
ing rude."

" Ah, madame, I was looking at the sub-
ject from your point of view. I was speaking
as you would speak! By Heavens, I was!"
he exclaimed with some warmth. " To me
you have always been the exception. And
Yvonne de Girondelle is the rule."

** We are coming out into the open coun-
try. That bend is very beautiful."

" In another moment you will have the
view of the river. After all, I am unjust to
Yvonne; she means well; she is probably right.
Like most men I grumble, but I do what my
women tell me to."

" You could not have a better adviser than
your mother."

** And Yvonne. You see they are my two
estates, secular and spiritual."

" And the third estate? "

" If it came, would of course be the
Schlopsmeyer! It sounds like a page out of

1 82 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

French history — the Abbe Sieyes. What is
the third estate? Nothing. What would it
be? Everything. Alas, everything!" he
sighed.

" You do not mean half what you say."

" What does it matter, as long as I mean
the 'worser' half? Alas, everything!" he
sighed again.

" Stop sighing at once! " She tapped the
knob of her parasol.

" If I did, I should laugh. And that would
be fatal. These things should be done sol-
emnly, sadly, with full perception of the in-
evitable, the overwhelming."

" Or not at all."

Again he looked askance at her. " That
is the rather monotonous advice," he said, " of
all who have done it."

"Done what?"

" Married."

" Surely you could make a suitable
match!"

" What do you call ' suitable? ' What is
to ' suit ' on both sides? Birth? or fortune?
or temperament? "

" All three."

" You are indeed a fortunate woman, ma-
dame." There was irony in his tone; there
was far more pathos. She bit her under lip.
And they drove in silence along the brown

MADAME DE LIANCOURT. 183

embankment, with the stealthy river gliding
alongside.

" I have no reason to complain/' she said,
striving with all her might to keep her voice
steady. " But you know I was not speaking
of myself. Marriage is a very different thing
for men or for women. With men it is for-
tune; with women it is fate. I — of course I
am grieved that I am not to my husband
what I should be. No — I am not at all the
wife he ought to have had.'*

" No man," he said grimly, " gets the wife
he deserves."

" No, but you understand what I mean.
I am not speaking of good or bad. Raoul
should have had a wife who was brilliant, who
could shine in society, who could help him in
his career."

In a word, une femme tapageiise! "
Not exactly; and yet, I am too quiet.
I am only good for the backwoods, I."

" They are the abode of nymphs."

" Do not laugh at me. Ah, how lovely is
that curve of the hillside! Is that building
down yonder by the poplars the Moulin du
Gue? Often I ask myself: Would it not glad-
den Raoul's heart if I had success among

men:

?''

Surely you wrong him."
And I know that it would."

1 84 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Parbleu — after all, he is a man. Do you
know, our conversation has been so engross-
ing I almost fear I have missed our turning —
the place where we should have slipped off the
bank!"

" Let us go on; I love losing my way.*'

" And I then?— d deux^

" But, alas! I have not got it in me."

** To lose your way? No, madame, em-
phatically you have not. Do not try. It were
useless."

" Monsieur de Belvalette, you have always
been a good friend to me. Formerly, espe-
cially when we were children. Of late we have
rarely met. But I hear of your reputation.
It is terrible."

" Madame, I am confident your husband
praises me."

" He says that you make or unmake a
social success. To me that is terrible."

** Forgive me, he talks foolishness."

"Ah! no; he is too worldly wise to do
that. But, somehow, I like you. I trust you,
whom no one should trust. It is because I am
— how do you say — out of the running? "

*' The expression is doubtless Monsieur de
Liancourt's. But I thank you for your trust.
I thank you for more. I .thank you for hav-
ing taught me, long ago, without knowing
it yourself, that there are women who re-

MADAME DE LIANCOURT. 185

mained — out of the running. I owe you more
than I can ever repay." (Did his voice trem-
ble a little?) " If there was anything I ever
could do for you? " he paused.

She also waited.

" You could do nothing,*' she answered
slowly. "See, violets!" she suddenly ex-
claimed. "Along the roadside! Violets, at
this time of the year. My favourite flowers! "

" The violets of Faussinieres," he an-
swered. " Would you like me to get you
some? Anyhow, it is useless our driving on
here. We are driving away .into absurdity."
As he spoke he stopped his horse. " We can
not turn on this embankment," he said.
" There seems no chance of a turning."

" Then what shall we do? "

" Pick some violets first — ^your favourite
flowers! " They got down, and she stood be-
fore the mare while he gathered a great bunch
of the tiny blossoms. As he handed her them,
flushed with so much stooping, he detached
a large buttonhole and stuck it in his covert
coat.

" And now we must unharness this ani-
mal," he said. " You will laugh at me, but
really I am not at all sure of my powers as a
stable boy. I have saddled dozens of horses,
but I don't remember ever having harnessed

one."

1 86 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Is that all? " she replied, laughing. " /
am sure of my powers as a stable boy — I ! "
And for the moment, as she helped his bun-
gling fingers, strapping and unstrapping on
the lofty river bank, she felt, with a delightful
sense of enjoyment, her superiority over this
wonderful man, whom so many women had
found irresistible, who, to her, was simply an
honest gentleman — bon compagnon.

They got the dog cart twisted around —
rather a perilous moment! — ^and the mare
again between the shafts. " We shall be late
for lunch," he said as they started.

"Thank Heaven!''

" You do not like lunch? "

" I do not like table-d'hote meals. You
are a master of persiflage. Monsieur de Bel-
valette.''

Surely my words are most harmless.**
It is your face."

Madame, my face is the one sin I am
not responsible for."

" That is a saying for a woman."

" I fear that no woman could ever say it.
Your violets smell deliciously. How delight-
ful to have a favourite flower! I have none."
Butterflies haven't."

Madame, you reproach me with being a
butterfly. But when I speak of becoming do-
mesticated, you reproach me yet more."

ti
<<

MADAME DE LIANCOURT. 187

" Monsieur de Belvalette, what I reproach
you with — ^but, no; I have no right to re-
proach you with anything. Pray choose your
own flower! "

" Yet if, of your goodness of heart, in my
forlornness, you would condescend, once for
all " — he bent forward — " to advise me."

" Oh ! I should bid you, of course, take
the golden lily — lilium auratum — ^remember!
After all, in the world of to-day there is
nothing worth seeking, even for the sons
of Crusaders, but stock exchange bankers'
gold!*'

" Thank you," he said quietly, and his
dark cheek burned purple as if he had received
a blow.

He reflected on the words again, when,
seven hours later, he went up to his room to
dress for dinner. In fact, they had hardly
been out of his mind. Madame de Liancourt,
he had heard, on returning from their too
long drive had gone to lie down with a head-
ache. He himself had not done much, beyond
avoiding /^/e-d-/^/^.y with the heiress.

" Of course," he said, standing by his
dressing table, for on that dressing table lay
an exquisitely arranged little nosegay of Cyp-
ripedium and maidenhair— a buttonhole. He
knew that he was expected to wear Cypri-
pediiim that evening, for had he not the

l88 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

night before, replying to Freddy's question,
casually, carelessly answered that the '* sweet
little shoes of the goddess " were his favourite
bloom! Had occasion oflfered, his choice
would have varied. But, although he could
not have missed the meaning of the proceed-
ings at breakfast, he had hardly prepared him-
self for finding so palpable a hint on his table
that evening. The immensity of its broad-
ness disgusted him; and quietly, rather shame-
lessly, humming Souvent fcmme varie over
and over again, he dressed with slow decision,
ultimately arranging in his buttonhole, very
deliberately, the violets he had brought back
that afternoon and put in a glass.

There was a hum of expectation — a sud-
den hush amid loud laughter — as he entered
the drawing-room. It was the thrill of curios-
ity which welcomed every guest that eventful
evening, when the hotly perfumed air seemed
charged with electricity. The whole room,
amid its starry lights, seemed overloaded
with brilliant blossoms; great pyramids and
baskets of chrysanthemums and orchids shone
out between the palms and ferns. Every
woman wore her flowers likie a challenge;
every man saw in his an appeal. And each
new entry was greeted with waves of contra-
dictory leeling, for no one believed in a blind
play of chance, most men knowing that in

MADAME DE LIANCOURT.

189

their own case — and why not, then in others?
— the colours had been as deUberately chosen
as the favours of a cotillon. As Belvalette
advanced a painful silence sank around him.
Nobody wore violets. Fredegonde Schlops-
meyer, paler than usual, pulled at the cypripe-
diums which covered the left side of her
corsage.

" Is everybody here? " asked old Schlops-
meyer, protruding his white waistcoat, some-
what suggestive, in spite of its stiffness, only
of grease.

As he spoke, Raoul de Liancourt hurried
in with Lise. She wore white, and a great
bunch of violets lay in the middle of her low-
cut bodice.

" My dear Madame de Liancourt," said
Fredegonde Schlopsmeyer, ** where did you
find those exquisite violets? Nobody could
have procured them; I never heard of them at
this time of year. Surely you and Monsieur
de Belvalette must have gone and gathered
them together.

Lise, turning suddenly, saw, all of a trem-
ble. Monsieur de Belvalette standing before
her, coolly and calm.

" Madame,'* he said, " I shall have the
honour of taking you in to dinner. . And I
fear that you will be obliged to submit to the
inexorable decree which makes me your

igo

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

delighted partner for^ the rest of the even-
ing.

" Is he mad? " asked Madame de Giron-
delle, furiously, of her cavalier, Monsieur de
Liancourt.

" Do not ask me. Can I know what they
have been up to? " answered, in anger. Mon-
sieur de Liancourt.

" There are quantities of violets all along
the river bank," said Lise. ** Any one can
pick them who chooses.*'

" Monsieur de Belvalette chooses," whis-
pered Madame de Girondelle.

'*Ah! it is pleasant to pick the violets —
especially the violets, the humble, sweet vio-
lets — ^along the river bank! "

" Tais-toi," said Raoul.

But it was only toward the end of the
evening that he went up to his wife, in the full
flush of female envy and malice and universal
acclaim.

" Well," he said, with a half-checked
sneer, " you have more sucess than you ever
could have bargained for! "

" Yes," she said, smiling, " more than I
could ever have bargained for. Art thou con-
tent?"

He turned away without answering. She
laid a hand on his arm. " Raoul," she said,
" you must not let this talk of Monsieur de

MADAME DE LIANCOURT.

191

Belvalette's marriage go further. He has not
the slightest intention of proposing to Made-
moiselle Schlopsmeyer."

** Indeed," he answered. ** Well, you
ought to know. I suppose he is too busy
elsewhere."

OUR COUSIN SONIA.

Ours is a numerous family. That is to
say, of course, in the strictest sense there is no
one besides my sister and myself — I know of
no other Martenses — but we seem to have
cousins sprinkled all over our little world of
Holland. Moreover, there are all my moth-
er's French relations, whom I have known in-
timately from a child, and the South Bavarian
branch of her family, distant in all three senses
of the word, and — no, I fancy our cosmopoli-
tanism ends there.

Unless I include ** our cousin Sonia."
Every family, like every dwelling house
and every human personality, has a cote hon-
tcux. Circumstances and component parts
exist which ourselves and our acquaintaces
tacitly combine to ignore. We are grateful
to the latter for so doing, but not without
vexation. Tom isn't dead (though he wishes
he was), and they know he isn't. Yet only the
weaklings among families are really afraid of

the harm their prodigals can do them, nor do
192

OUR COUSIN SONIA.

193

they mind the prodigars existence so long
as he doesn't arrange a return. As for the
daughters of a house — that's another matter.
A prodigal daughter should instantly be
given, as in Turkey, th^ sack.

Among our kindred Harry Brassy has
long been the notorious black sheep. It was
not always so. I remember how, in my own
youth, little Harry was an affectionate object
of interest to everybody. Old Karel Brassy
— he was my mother's cousin, but consider-
ably her senior — had, long before my time,
lived all his lazy life, the egoist existence of a
gentlemanly roue. He spent a good deal of
money, but was somehow accredited with pos-
sessing more, the undefined inheritance of a
stingy, silent father. Late in life, close on
seventy, old Karel married a wife of thirty,
with, it was reported, some thirty thousand
pounds. But that may have been epigram-
matic. They lived at The Hague in excellent
style, and all the relations were much inter-
ested in their doings and in the development
of that tender bud, their dear little, spoiled
little Harry.

Old Karel lived to be more than eighty.
His death made no palpable change in the cir-
cumstances of his wife and child. Mevrouw
Brassy continued to reside at The Hague,
where she kept open house in a dignified man-

194

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

ner; Harry passed from a private academy to
the grammar school, and thence to Leyden
University. Everybody liked the handsome
widow and her bright, distinguished-looking
son. The latter had many friends in Leyden
in the best set; he was generous and open-
handed; you never heard anything against
him. I remember only too well how frequent-
ly Harry Brassy was held up to me as an ex-
ample, because he was so pleasant spoken and
friendly, and never saw anybody's faults. I
did. Even my own. Alas, alas ! Even my own.

When Harry had taken his degree and left
the university (with a splendid farewell feast)
his mother sent for him. He told me all this
himself. He was then twenty-five, and a capi-
tal specimen of the wealthy, well-born young
Dutch university man. He walked into her
sitting-room one dull November morning and
said: " Well, mother, here I am." -

" Harry," replied the lady, smiling to him,
" you must marry a large fortune within six
months, please."

" Not within six months," he answered,
laughing. " Father wasn't in such a hurry.
He waited until he found youJ"

" He could choose, and you can't," she
retorted, still smiling. " Within six months,
or we shall both be sold up! "

" What do you mean? " He turned pale.

((

OUR COUSIN SONIA. 195

" Sold up; I haven't got any money left.
Heaven knows, I made it last long enough,
considering how little it was to begin with! "
Little! I always thought we were rich! "
So does every one else, thank God ! "

He sat down and stared at her. " Do you
mean to say that I am penniless? "

" Penniless! What a ridiculous expres-
sion! Like beggars with a baby. * I — am
penniless.' Of course we are not penniless.
But we are bankrupt."

" But my money — the money father left
me? "

She made a rapid movement with both
hands like the upfluttering of birds.

"Gone!" she said. "Spent! You have
spent it."

" Mother, you should have told me sooner.
You have done wrong."

She burst into tears. "Wrong!" she
cried. " My own child to tell me I have done
wrong! Oh, the ugly, cruel word! Wrong!
Do you know what I have done, unjust, un-
grateful boy? My solemn duty to your dead
father and you. I promised him upon his
death bed," she sobbed, " and many a time be-
fore and after — no, I don't mean * after,' but
I've thought of it a hundred times, I mean —
solemnly promised him to go on as he'd been
doing, and to make the money last till you

ig6 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

could get some yourself. It's been a dreadful,
dreadful strain. Many a time have I been
obliged to go without a bonnet or a cloak! "

" A new one? " he suggested, smiling in
his turn. " Never surely before you'd bought
enough? "

She dried her tears. " A woman never has
bought enough," she said; "not even when
she buys too much.'' And then she laughed.
" But we've really managed excellently," she
said. " Now you will marry a wealthy wife,
and we shall manage as well as ever."

" And supposing I don't? " he kicked
moodily at a table leg.

" That would be very naughty of you,
Harry. Very naughty and wilful. Then your
poor, long suffering mammie would have to
go to the workhouse, and all her pretty things
would be sold to a horrid crowd by a horrid
auctioneer! Dear me, if you don't intend to
marry money, you must please stop spoiling
that table at once!" She screamed with
laughter at this idea, and her son joined in.
Soon they were heartily enjoying themselves,
tears of merriment in their light-blue eyes, as
they worked out a comic picture of a public
sale of their effects, speculating as to the value
of all that was most old and rubbishv.

** Uncle John would be sure to purchase
my nightcaps/* said Mevrouw Brassy, shaking

OUR COUSIN SONIA.

197

in her seat. ** There, that's as good a joke as
ever I made in my life! " For she alluded to
her brother's queer habit of tippling — ^with
which this story has nothing to do. Harry
laughed too; they were very gay, and thus he
learned that he was poor.

The fact had little influence upon his way
of living. He went out that same afternoon,
after lunch, to buy a bouquet for the even-
ing's ball, a bouquet for a young cousin just
coming out. On the way home he dropped
one of his gloves, and, letting it lie, called at
the haberdasher's to order a dozen pairs. But
he played high at the club before dinner, for
the first time in his life. He won thirty-five
pounds. The dinner and subsequent dance
were exceedingly enjoyable; he got to bed in
the small hours and slept like a top.

" I never enjoyed anything so much," he
has often said, " as those thirty-five pounds.
The first money I ever earned in my life."

For weeks matters went tranquilly on;
neither mother nor son alluded to or reflected
on the tiresome subject of finance. But Me-
vrouw Brassy reverted the more energetically
to matrimony as a practical pursuit. She even
went so far as to take preliminary steps in the
direction of a certain most eligible young lady,
when —

" My dear mother," said Harry, mildly

IqS some women I HAVE KNOWN.

and firmly, laying a hand on her arm, " I will
do anything and everything you like for you.
But I won't marry a woman I'm not in love
with at the time/'

" How do you mean ' at the time '? "

" I may not be in love with her for ever,
and I may not be in love with her at once; but
I must be in love with her at the moment of
our marriage."

"Why, unless you intend to rerqain in love
with her for ever? "

" Intend? That, dear mother, as the
Greeks used to say, lieth in the lap of the
Gods. But one has the right, at least, to start
fair. I am not going to marry any of the
young ladies I know at this moment. Please
don't mind."

Not one, Harry? "

No — nor two. Don't mind, please,
mother."

"Oh, Harry!" She sat thinking for a
few moments, then she said solemnly: " In
that case nothing remains for me but to be-
come seriously ill."

" Whatever do you mean, mother? "

" I can not stay at The Hague. I must
need immediate change of air. My doctor
recommends Montreux."

" Well, The Hague's a dull place at the
best. I really can't help it, mother."

OUR COUSIN SONTA. 199

Mevrouw Brassy coughed.

" You don't do it very naturally," said
her son.

" I must practise. Yes, I shall close the
house. I must go to Montreux. You can
take me."

She coughed, with daily improvement of
tone, through the next few days; then, hav-
ing been advised to get rid, by a change, of
this chronic bronchial affection, she departed
for the Lake of Geneva, and stopped cough-
ing in the train.

Harry, who had never travelled otherwise
than in the midsummer holidays, found the
Grand Hotel des Rastaquoueres very much to
his taste. It is one of those huge, delightful
menageries where you meet with the gayest
of birds — ^ay, with the biggest beasts. There
were toilets, for both sexes, by the shores of
clear, placid Leman, which showed it still to
be a very contrasted lake. Harry blossomed
out in glories unknown amid the tulip-beds
of his native land. He walked with foreign
counts and barons and talked of the doings —
backstairs doings — of their respective princes
and kings.

" You must marry here," said his mother.

" All right. There's no hurry."

" Indeed there is. People at home are be-
ginning to ask questions. It's your bills."

20O SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Oh! no one minds a young man's bills."

" True; but they say, * He's of age, and so
must have come into his father's money.' '

"Oh! never mind. Don't let's bother.
There's a capital programme to-night. I
wonder will that exquisite Roumanian girl be
there? "

** I think I heard her say she was going.
But, really, 'tis of no consequence."

However, it was. For the Roumanian girl
brought a Russian friend, and the next thing
we heard was that Harry " de " Brassy had
married an enormously rich, wealthy young
lady — a Russian, Sonia Pavlovich.

The ** de " was his mother's doing. You
really could not get on without it, she said, at
the Grand Hotel des Rastaquoueres.

It was all done in such a great hurry and
secrecy, because Sonia had a rich uncle and
godfather who would never consent to her
marrying a Protestant, but would have to
make the best of a fait accompli.

The next thing we heard was that the
uncle refused to be reconciled. The next
thing (much later) that he never had existed
at all.

Harry troubled himself about none of
these things. For a long time he was fully
occupied buying the most beautiful presents
for his bride. He ran across to Paris about a

OUR COUSIN SONIA. 20I

diamond tiara. Incidentally, he answered
Sonia one day that his title was ** vicomte "
— it was said in fun, there being no such rank
of nobility in Holland — but their conversation
was suddenly interrupted, and she told a lot
of other people, and he found himself com-
pelled to stick to what he had said.

** It does not matter twopence," declared
his mother. " In these sort of places every-
body pretends to be a great deal more than
he is — excepting royalties, who pretend to be
less. The high rank dropped by the sovereign
may well be divided between some dozens of
his subjects."

"How you reason things out!" replied
Harry. " I suppose there's some sort of satis-
faction in finding a reason for what one does.
I never wanted to. I think * vicomte ' rather
pretty. I shall have cards made with * vi-
comte.' "

" Be cautious," said mamma.

He looked at her laughing. " Do you
mean that? " he said.

She too laughed. ** Well, no," she replied.
*' What nonsense! Why shouldn't everybody
do as they like? "

" It's a good thing you don't mean it.

Sonia's cards are ready. I found her sitting in

the veranda with the whole hundred, or very

nearly, spread out on the table in front of her."
14

202 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN,

" Sonia means Sophy, doesn't it? And
Sophy means wisdom? "

" Yes."

" So much the better for you, my son."

"Jn the hotel veranda! Well, shall we
go straight on, or turn? "

"Oh! turn to the left. ,1 hate going
straight on."

" Now, my dear boy, it is what I like best.
One has always to think before turning."

" Oh, no! mother, I naturally drift aside."

" Now you are metaphysical. That is
odious."

" Mother, I don't even know the meaning
of the word."

"What? Metaphysical?"

" No — odious." He laughed again; never
child had a more musical laugh. " When a
man is in love and beloved he can only re-
member pretty words."

A smile rippled over Mevrouw Brassy's
comely face. " I wonder," she replied, " what
dear Soma's old uncle will say? "

Dear Sonia's old uncle naturally said very
little. But after a time the persistency of his
silence began seriously to annoy Mevrouw
Brassy, who, immediately after the wedding,
had returned and reopened her house in The
Hague.

She was bright and cheerful and amusing

OUR COUSIN SONIA.

203

as ever; people flocked to her reception, as
they had always done, and tradesmen gave her
credit as before. All of us heard much about
the doings of the young vicomte and vi-
comtesse, who, at the desire of the bride, had
soon migrated to Nice, where their inter-
course with the gay and the great was duly
recorded in the Riviera Gazette. " I quite
agree with Sonia,' declared Mevrouw at The
Hague. " Montreux in the winter is emi-
nently second-rate. You talk about princes
and kings at Montreux, but you meet them
at Cannes." This was d propos of Harry's
intimate intercourse at the Cercle de la Re-
union with an old royal highness as full of
play as a puppy.

Much as we all liked Harry and his mother,
eager as we had been to contradict as ridicu-
lous any rumours of their possible insolvency,
it can not be denied that the " vicomte " busi-
ness, when it reached us, came with the un-
pleasant persistency of a shock. You could
not get away from the awkward impression
it left that this was the sort of thing respect-
able people, in Holland at least, do not do.
Mevrouw Brassy ignored the whole business;
had any one mentioned it to her she would
doubtless have laughed and replied that the
weather was seasonable. Meanwhile, the
young couple led a brilliant and beautiful ex-

204. SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

istence amid roses and diamonds, sunshine
and glitter, while most of us envied them at
home in the wet and the work.

" But Harry is the sort of man who is
bound to succeed! " said all my women folk.
And my wife, whose heart is as kind as if she
had not brains enough to make it cruel, for-
bade my writing a funny account of the vis-
countcy to my cousins in Paris. A pity, for I
felt I could have delighted the soul of, say,
Lisa de Liancourt. And of course they all
heard it from somebody else.

" Charity covereth a multitude of sins,"
said my wife gently, as she arranged the blue
tea-cups on the Dutch after-dinner tea-tray.
The gusty wind of a shivery February even-
ing beat wet against the window panes. I
had just put on morocco slippers, a thing I
never do.

" But that doesn't mean * hideth,' '' I ob-
jected. #. .

" Yes, it does," replied my wife with deci-
sion, for no woman ever doubts her own Bible
exegesis.

And no man ever contradicts her.

So as I silently sat glancing through the
pages of the Revue des deux Mondes, there
came that important ring at the front door,
and before I had realized possibilities (in con-
nection with those impossible slippers) an un-

OUR COUSIN SONIA. 205

known lady, very young, very pretty, rather
wet, in an enormous magnificent travelling
cloak stood before us in the middle of the
room.

I rose to my feet. " I beg your pardon,
madam," I began, " but "

" Your cousin Sonia,'' she answered in
French. " Don't scold your man."

" Madame Brassy! " exclaimed nw wife,
with her sweet smile of welcome.

** Even thus, Sonia de Brassy," replied our
visitor, and, dropping the heavy cloak about
her feet, stood revealed — ^a graceful, girlish
figure, a faultlessly fitting dark tailor-made
dress.-

" And Harry? " ventured my wife a little
timidly. " Where is Harrv? Waiting out-
side? "

The Russian lady sat down on a conven-
ient pile of cushions and burst into distressful
tears. **Harry has treated me very cruelly! "
she sobbed. " Harry has run away! "

"Run away!" we both exclaimed to-
gether.

" Run away! "

" Whither? " cried my wife.

I said nothing, for I couldn't say " With
whom? "

" I don't know. He went suddenly from
Paris; he left me a letter I will show you. He

2o6 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

told me to come here, and I came. Can you
put me up for the night — one night? "

" Of course/' said my wife with ready sym-
pathy, and, quicker than I, went to ring
the bell.

"But his mother!" questioned I; " Me-
vrouw Brassy — does she know? *'

" Mamma-in-law? I can not go to her.
She is Wery angry with me," replied the poor
thing, and cried more copiously than ever.

Now, it is difficult for me to represent
to myself Mevrouw Brassy, whom I know
fairly well — ^you see, she married my mother's
cousin — as very angry with any one, beyond a
momentary outburst of passing passion. And
I felt that in any case I could certainly never
have continued indignant with so pretty and
innocent and fluffy-haired a little girl.

" It is my fault," she said, when she had
calmed down and sat, with her feet on the fen-
der, drinking tea. " Yes, I had better confess
at once; it is all my fault. But, then, you
see, I loved him so " — her voice broke — " I
couldn't bear to think of losing him. And I
thought he was very rich, and his mother only
wanted more — he said he didn't care — ^but his
mother told me he must marry money, and
so I invented my uncle."

Invented your uncle! " I exclaimed.
Oh! I know it was very wrong; but see.

OUR COUSIN SONIA.

207

I have been severely punished " — her long
eyelids fell low on the soft pink cheeks.
" Now he has no money, and I have no money
— no, we have no money at all."

" Not what fine people like you call
money," suggested my wife, with a smile.

Sonia lifted her eyes. " Pas le soUy* she
said. Both of us laughed again, one is so un-
willing to admit poverty to others.

" And, see, here is his note! " said Sonia;
she fumbled in a little reticule at her waist.

The little note, on pink perfumed paper —
with a big coronet — read:

"Dearest Darling: I must leave you.
Don't cry. I can not support you for the
present. The shop-keepers are so disgust-
ingly uncivil. We must separate. You had
better go to my cousins, the Martenses, of
whom I have so often told you. They are
the kindest and nicest of all my relations.
They will be good to you. Harry."

I smiled on the wrong side of my face,
with a mixture of complaisance and irritation.

" A disgraceful letter! " said my wife in
Dutch. In French she remarked: "And, then,
he was gone? "

Sonia began crying again, quite gently.

" Yes, he is gone. I know not where."

208 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Don't cry, I beg of you. Don't cry," I
entreated, tortured. ** You will stay here for
the present, and I dare say he will soon come
back." My wife cast me a quick look, very
composite, but Sonia sat up and glanced all
round the room.

** Mon cousin,** she said, " those slippers go
badly with evening dress." I blushed, furious,
yet not ill pleased.

" Do you always say what you think, ma-
dame? "

" Always? No. But among cousins.
Fie, how stiff! * Madame! ' "

" Let me show you your room," said my
wife, rising.

" Oh, it will wait, will it not? I am so
comfortable here. Yet, an fond, I should like
to see my room — I know you will give me a
good one. It is so nice, is it not? — a pretty
bedroom, not big and old-fashioned and ugly.
I always look for the sunniest room in a
hotel."

" I fear we have not the choice of a
hotel," replied my wife. " You should have
come in the summer, when we are in the coun-
try "

"Ah, that is true! He should have run
away in the summer! " cried Sonia. She
swept me a big courtesy, and followed the
lady of the house.

OUR COUSIN SONIA.

209

" She preferred to remain upstairs; she is
tired," said my wife on her return.

" You were rather unkind to her/' I an-
swered reproachfully.

My wife did not at once retort. Presently
she said, over her needlework: " She wanted
orange water. I have sent John out for some.
And she also wants a cup of tea at half past
ten, or she would not be able to sleep."

" Well, a cup of tea is a very little thing."

" It is." My wife's voice spoke volumes.

"She is exceedingly charming and pretty."

" She is."

" I wonder, is she going to stay? "

" She is."

" Well, that is very nice and pleasant."
No answer at all.

" It is," said I, imitating my wife's voice.

My wife looked up, laughing. " Don't say
more than you can answer for! "

But I felt annoyed with her; women are
too jealous of each other. " I have seldom
seen so delightful and simple and elegant a
creature," I said.

" Naturally, do not forget that she is the
Vicomtesse de Brassy."

" Aha! You now find that convenient to
remember! "

" Well, I hope that she won't do any harm
to the children," said my wife.

2IO SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" The children will adore her," I answered
confidently.

The children did. For, indeed, she was
sweet to children, laughing and playing and
singing and dancing from morning till night.
She asked me to get her some Dutch money
— not in exchange for French — only a few
hundred florins, she said. And she bought
very pretty presents for the children, and also
for my wife and myself. She spoke excellent
French, with the pretty Russian burr. And
soon she became a great favourite in our circle
of friends. My wife found her rather heavy,
and sometimes rather light. She was incapa-
ble of occupying herself in any way, by read-
ing or working; she could only sing at the
piano for hours, and that, in spite of her most
beautiful voice, often had its objections.
Also, she could interest herself, endlessly, in
clothes, but not without some one to discuss
them. When I saw her (never before lunch,
for she breakfasted in her room) she was
charming, exquisitely dressed, bright and
sparkling, not averse to flirtation. I thor-
oughly enjoyed her magnificent singing.
" Among women she is dull," said my wife.

When she had been with us more than a
week I suggested that she should call on her
mother-in-law, whom, but for the latter's in-
disposition (that troublesome cough), she

OUR COUSIN SONIA. 21I

must have met long ago in society. To my
astonishment, Sonia blazed out at me:

" Do not speak of her! I refuse to go near
her, for shame, mon cousin."

" But still "

" There is no * but.' What have I to do
with this woman and her son? They have
betrayed me! I hate them! I have good rea-
son to hate them. Do you not think *' — she
looked at me — " that I have reason to hate
them both? "

" Hate is such a strong word," I replied
evasively.

" Do you think so? It is your Dutch
blood says that. To me it is such a weak
one. All my life I have wished for some per-
son to invent proper words for the feelings I
feel."

" Still, your mother-in-law "

" It is to her I owe this miserable mar-
riage. See, I am left to shift for myself — I
am deserted!" She mastered her tears. "Ah,
cousin, your family has much cause to make
good to me all the wrong that my husband
has done."

" Dear cousin, as long as you are happy
here "

" Happy? How can I be happy when I
am destitute! I am like a beggar; I have not
the means of subsistence. For these clothes

212 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

I have been obliged to get, in your elegant
world " I smiled with approval.

" Yes, they are overdressed," said Sonia.
" Well, unless I pay the milliners I shall have
to go to prison."

"How much money do you want?" I
asked rashly.

" Eight hundred florins, mon cousin. Ah!
thank you; you are a gentleman."

What could I do? " Your husband does
not communicate with you at all? " I said.
You have not written to him? "

No, indeed, I have not written. Rather
would I tear my eyes out. Would your wife
— think you — ^write, mon cousin, if you had run
away? "

** I suppose not," I said, uncomfortably
standing on one leg.

*' What, are you preparing, at the mere
suggestion, to fly? Oh, you men! But no;
you are not of the kind that betrays. Anna
is happy!" She lifted her pocket handker-
chief to her eyes. " Never mind, I too am
happy in having found so generous a relation.
At least, I am saved from the bagno^

"Don't tell my wife," was all I could reply.

A week later I certainly began to under-
stand the latter lady's smothered impatience.
But the poor little deserted foreigner was so
pathetic, so childishly incapable and harmless

OUR COUSIN SONIA. 213

that we could not find it in us to be other-
wise than kind to her. Still, we greeted with
a restrained alacrity her vague proposals of de-
parture to stay with some other cousins — first
cousins those — whom she had met and much
liked at our house.

" You would not," she asked anxiously,
" think it unkind of me to go? "

I said yes, I should think it unkind; but
Sonia was looking at my wife.

At that moment I was called out of the
room, because the postman was waiting to see
me. " Here's a letter come back, Mynheer,"
said the postman in the hall; " a registered let-
ter they couldn't deliver in England. The
gentleman had left." I glanced at the envel-
ope he extended. It was addressed to " Hen-
ry Brassy, Esq.," at some district post office
in London.

" It was registered by a lady who said she
was only passing through," continued the
postman; "but they think at the office she's
been staying with you, sir."

" She is here still," I replied, admiring for
the dozenth time the perfection of our postal
arrangements. " I will get this receipt signed
for you; " and I went back to Sonia with the
letter.

She blushed crimson when she saw it.
" Ah, my poor little letter! " she cried.

214 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Cousin, I have followed your advice — I have
written! I registered the letter to an address
he once gave me in London. See, it has not
reached him. My poor little pitiful letter!
Well, it was madness to send it! The mad-
ness of despair."

" But it wasn't properly addressed," said
I, pointing to the superscription.

" Oh, he has told me always to do that.
You know how stupid they are in England
about foreign addresses. Well, it is no use;
he is not there." She gathered up her papers
and hurried away.

" He is masquerading in London under a
false name," said my wife.

" Not under a false name. Don't be illogi-
cal," I replied irritably.

My wife nodded her head. " That is why
the letter has not reached him," she said.
" He has changed his name. I always knew
that she wrote to him, and now she has sent
him money. I hope it wasn't much? " She
looked up into my face.

" Not too much," I answered, and made
good my escape. When we next saw Sonia
her eyes were red. I felt very sorry for her.
Of late they had often been so.

That evening we had some people to din-
ner. Sonia was beautifully dressed, I thought ;
my wife says she had not nearly so many new

OUR COUSIN SONIA.

215

dresses as I imagined, but she possessed an
admirable aptitude for draping and combining
them, so that to male perceptions, which ab-
sorb the ensemble, she seemed everlastingly
fresh.

After coffee Sonia sang. She sang more
superbly than I had ever yet heard her, chiefly
pathetic love songs, French and German, and
some of her own exquisitely passionate Slav
music, so unlike ours. I can still feel the tears
in her glorious soprano as they seemed to fall,
one by one, on my heart :

** Ach, um Deine feuchten Schwingen,
West, wie sehr ich Dich beneide !
Denn du kannst ihm Kunde bringen,
Was ich in der Trennung leide ! "

She bore on, trembling with emotion, to
the end. As the last note died av/ay, a thrill
of pent-up ecstasy ran through the company.
A moment later one of the greatest connois-
seurs of the country was complaining, al-
most bitterly, to the performer that circum-
stances prevented her from becoming a pro-
fessional.

It is a loss to the world," he said.

So I have heard before," replied Sonia
naively; "but of course people never meant
it."

" I mean it."

2i6 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

"A pleasant future you would prepare
for madame," said another man; ** a public
singer! "

The first speaker turned angrily.

" You don't know what you're talking of,"
he cried; "you are twenty years behind.
Look at Patti, Nilsson, half a dozen others,
bathing in millions, feted by all the sovereigns
of Europe! "

" Oh, the half dozen! " replied the other,
with a shrug of his shoulders.

** Yes, it is that I am afraid of," inter-
rupted Sonia, who had listened eagerly; ** the
being second-rate. That, as a position, is
pitiable!"

The connoisseur looked at her sharply.

" You would be of the first half dozen,
madame," he answered. Somebody called me
away, but I noticed that these two continued
talking together for some time.

*' Oh, of course, she sings admirably," said
my wife, when all the guests were gone and
we stood comparing notes in the empty draw-
ing-room.

And then she made some allusion to chant-
age, A pun from her lips is the rarest of
pearls; I felt she must be strongly excited.

" Hush! " I said, for the door had creaked
and Sonia entered the room, clad in some ex-
quisite white wrapper.

OUR COUSIN SONIA. 217

" I can not sleep," she said, trembling
from head to foot. " I want to talk to you
both."

I led her to a chair and tried to soothe her,
as one might a frightened child.

** I can not stand it any longer," she said.
" I — I must go back to him." And, spread-
ing both her hands across her face, she burst
into a storm of weeping.

"I love him so!" she sobbed. "I love
him so! "

Then my wife went up to her, and, putting
both her arms round her neck, kissed her be-
tween the curls upon her forehead.

" No, no," continued Sonia, gently put-
ting the comforter aside; " I want to tell you
all. You have been good to me. It is a
shame. See, it was a plot. When we found
we had no money left, he said : * I will go and
make some. A man can always manage. A
woman is different. You must go,' he said,
* to my Dutch relations and say I have de-
serted you. They will take you in, and
if you can get some money from them you
might send me what you do not want.' That
is what we arranged together, and we wrote
the letter. See, when you turned me out,
I was to have gone to another." Her pretty
cheeks were burning. Her sorrow and shame

would have melted a stone.
15

2l8 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

"Old Madame Brassy ought to be ashamed
of herself," said my wife, with ready insight.

And suddenly Sonia laughed.

" Yes; I fear," she said, '' we have all been
very, very naughty. But mamma-in-law is as
poor as we. Heaven only knows How she
manages to hang on."

" She doesn't even pay her butcher," ex-
plained my wife. I looked up, surprised at
this bit of information.

** Serves the wicked, expensive butcher
right! " said Sonia. " But don't interrupt me,
please. For now I have thought of a way to
put everything straight; I am so happy! We
want lots of money, all of us; we can't do
without money, please! I am going to sing
in concerts and — and on the stage. I shall
earn heaps of money — not at once, of course,
but some at once, and afterward more. I
shall study hard, and learn things properly.
I think I can act already — a little." She
looked up shyly at me.

You can," I answered.
Thanks, mon cousin. You were always
charming. It will be just the kind of life we
shall like, just the kind that will suit us.
There will soon be lots of money, I hope, to
spend, and to waste, which is almost nicer!
And — ^joy!" — oh, the leap in her voice — "it
is I shall gain money for Harry! He never

OUR COUSIN SONIA.

219

could earn any for himself, poor boy. And
yet he would have married me poor! "

" Where is Harry? '* asked my wife se-
verely.

" In London. I think he has had rather
a — successful run at cards. I do hope he is
having a good time."

My wife gave such a gasp that I laughed.

" But when I am a prima donna I shall not
allow him to play, excepting just for fun."
She rose and walked to the door. " Well, now
I have told you all. Mon cousin, you must
leave me the use of this money. I will repay
it. I am going to begin at once; as soon as
Harry sends me his new address. I shall write
to him ta join me in Paris. Is it not a beauti-
ful plan, mon cousin? "

" I think it is very wrong," said my wife.
The stage! "

But you, mon cousin? " asked Sonia
pleadingly.

" God bless you, child! " said I. She closed
the door hastily between us.

" What did you say to her? " questioned
my wife.

" I said, * God bless you.' "

"Well," replied my wife reflectively;
"well, well! One can always say that."

These things did not happen yesterday.
Sonia — ^her name wasn't Sonia — is a bright

220 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

Operatic star. She and her husband, never far
distant from his mother, live in reckless lux-
ury all over Europe. In private life he is

known as the Vicomte de : the name

wasn't Brassy.

DIANE DE BRAGADE.

The first time I met Madame de Bragade
she said the worst thing I have ever heard
fall from a woman's lips.

It was at a big dinner party, and I had the
honour of sitting next to her. She had espe-
cially asked (as I afterward heard) that it
should be so, because I " liked literature,"
and she had never before met a gentleman
who liked literature.

She sat next to me, then, and I felt flat-
tered, for she is the reigning beauty of our
little big world. Undeniably she is a beauti-
ful woman. A little massive perhaps for so
youthful a Juno, but magnificently formed.
She knows it. All during dinner she kept her
elbow on the table between us, and played
with her ear or the flowers in her hair. The
arm and hand, I admit, were most exquisitely
moulded. But the intention was too evident.

" You have children, I think," T had said,
A propos of something or other. She turned
lazily ; she was all white lace and rubies, with
warm flesh tints and great coils of dark hair.

22Z

222 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

"Oh, yes!" she said slowly. "I don't
care about children. I've got thirteen
dogs."

The words, of course, might have been a
sort of jest or bravado; they were not; they
were deadly earnest. She meant them.

I have heard many women say many things
they meant or did not mean. Often it is diffi-
cult to tell. But to hear a mother say she
does not like children is to receive a lesson in
human depravity such as leaves its scar for
ever upon the heart.

I am a cynic, as all men know, and I
smiled. " Do all your thirteen dogs," I said,
*Mie in their lady's lap?"

She glanced at me quickly; I only smiled.
I had guessed aright. Among her thirteen
dogs she had included two favoured human
ones that dangled at her feet.

These pages will not tell the story of
Diane de Bragade. She has yet to live it.
All I can give is a column of tit-bits; she
would be delighted to scan my paragraphs;
she shall not have that pleasure. She would
like to think she had caused me pain.

There are men and women in the world
whose only pleasure is this causing of pain.
The men are very rare, thank God ! — the wom-
en are rarer. But the woman, when she oc-
curs, has by far the deadlier bite.

DIANE DE BRAGADE.

223

Madame de Bragade enjoyed giving pain
because it showed her strength. Her worship
— the one thing she loved — was physical
strength, first in herself, then in men or
brutes. The strength of beauty, the strength
of muscle, the strength of hardness and ob-
stinacy and cruelty — all these she was eager to
recognise; for the strength of intellect she
had no appreciation; the power of goodness
she thought to be a copy-book rule. She had
never intentionally done anything because it
was wrong — or right.

Her parents had married her early to the
Count de Bragade. He was twenty years her
senior. Their positions were pretty well equal
(no, hers was the higher; her name is one of
the greatest in Europe); his fortune was am-
ple; their relatives approved of the marriage;
there was absolutely nothing to keep them
apart. He preferred the country, she pre-
ferred the town. There was absolutely noth-
ing to keep them together. People got into
hardly inquiring after M. de Bragade. At
least her people did. Because their tastes
were dissimilar, she soon accustomed herself
to consider him a nonentity. But he was not.
He was an amiable country gentleman, with
many interests and mild pursuits, fairly well
educated, not unintelligent, fond of his chil-
dren and of all innocent creatures that look

224

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

to you for help. He was one of those men
who quietly do their duty in that sphere in
which God has placed them. And that is a
thing which some women can not stand.

Diane de Bragade believed that a man's
duty was to fight for her, to kill himself for
her, to fight her also, perhaps, if that proved
necessary. She would not have minded, pos-
sibly — had the occasion become imperative —
doing some violent hurt to herself. But she
loved her beautiful body, and would have been
slow, in any case, to recognise a tragedy, had
one come, as it never did, into her life.

Meanwhile the comedy of human errors,
saddest of plays, crept into that life and de-
veloped scene after scene. There was little
continuity, but no break.

When Monsieur de Virofiay first came out
in our society he was told that he must pay his
court to the Comtesse de Bragade. He said
that he did not want to; she frightened him.
By some mischance only the first half of this
sentence reached the lady. From that mo-
ment Hector de Virofiay was lost.

I was sorry for him, because I had liked
his sister. It is strange how men's regard for
each other — I am excluding intimate friend-
ships — ^is almost entirely dependent on their
estimate of each other's sisters, mothers, and
wives. Great dislike of any married woman,

DIANE DE BRAGADE. 225

for instance, is almost enough to make a man
harbour a sneaking affection for her husband.
It was hard on Jean de Bragade that no mor-
tal male could by any chance greatly dislike
Jean's beautiful wife.

" My ambition," said Diane to whoever
would hear her, " is to be hated by all women
and loved by all men." She had her wish —
aye, and more. Of the men who loved her,
half hated as well. Hate is a very different
thing from dislike.

When Virofiay's words were reported to
Madame de Bragade her eyes flashed; she sat
up and told Mayeux to fetch the young man
immediately. Jaque3 de Mayeux, being the
favoured cavaliere servente of the moment,
obeyed with a scowl. It was at a small cos-
tume ball, an exquisite affair, that this first
meeting occurred. There was nothing tragic
or even remarkable about it; de Viroflay,
though perhaps a fortunate man, could hardly
be called a lucky one, for his fate was the
common fate of all. He realised this, as he
stood bowing before Diane, looking gallant
enough in his dress of a Crusader (an " ances-
tor," needless to say).

Diane, who knew nothing of mythology,
had come as Venus Anadyomene — not a mis-
take in this Diana, who already, at twenty-
five, looked more like a Juno. Thus were the

226 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

goddesses blended; for Diana, we all know,
was a huntress, and Juno was married, and
Venus loved Mars. Diana was also chaste,
and Juno safeguarded the sanctity of the
home; but a mortal can not expect to com-
bine all the attributes of a goddess, especially
not all the attributes of three.

She sat, then, on a great sea-blue mantle
in the garb of the Anadyomene. Except the
water drops — which may have been well worth
a million — her costume can hardly have cost
more than a few dozen francs.

" I hear," she said, " that you have de-
clared that you were unwilling to make my
acquaintance? "

" I was afraid of you," replied the young
officer, almost in a whisper. But spoken to,
and not of, a woman, those words of course
sound like a compliment.

" You are not so brave as your costume,"
she said, smiling. " The strong men of old
were not afraid of women, I should think."

" Had Samson been so," replied Hector,
" all the better for him."

" Samson — is that mythology? You must
not talk cleverly to me, Monsieur de Viro-
flay. I have forgotten all about my mythol-
ogy, except that it was very improper."

" Why should you remember about other
goddesses? " he answered.

DIANE DE BRAGADE.

227

She smiled approval. " I have frequently
been told," she said, " that you ride superbly.
I should like to see you ride. It is the one
physical exercise a woman cares to see a man
excel in. All the others we appreciate, of
course, but they leave us indifferent. Except
boxing, perhaps? I do not know " — her eyes
filled with regret — " I have never seen a box-
ing match."

" It is a nasty sight, madame."

" Opinions differ. I should have thought
you too heavy a weight for a cavalry officer.
Oh, I like big men! Well, when could I see
you ride? "

For five minutes more they talked about
horses; when they parted, it was settled that
Diane should call at Dubriers next morning,
there to see Hector's famous Firefly go
through her famous paces. " Come in your
armour, sir knight," she said.

" Ah, madame," he said, bowing as low as
his corselet would let him, *' no armour avails
against Venus unarmed."

Jaques de Mayeux, coming up to claim
his partner, flung a frown like a whip-cut
across the Crusader's face. Hector turned
red. A few minutes later the two men met
by the buffet.

A word with you, sir," said Mayeux.
You may possibly have heard that I have

228 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

considered myself obliged to fight two duels
in the last three months? I dislike duels; they
are fussy. But I am resolved to fight any
number."

" You are utterly mistaken, sir," replied
Viroflay, with some haste; " I have not the
slightest intention of poaching on other peo-
ple's preserves."

" Preserves! " Mayeux smiled bitterly, but
he moved off in silence. He was out and away
the best fencer of our club.

He accompanied Madame de Bragade on
the following day to Dubriers. That was
only natural ; he accompanied her everywhere.
She laughed in his face. "All the same — what
I like, when I like, where I like, as I like!"
she said.

But with Hector's riding, which really is
first rate, she was unfeignedly delighted. The
soft smell of the riding school, the soft light,
the soft footfall of the galloping mare, the soft
silk of her shiny, richly veined skin, the soft
gleam of her expectant eye — these brought
home all the more to Diane the superb re-
served strength of the horse and the rider.
Viroflay is a big man, with a great appear-
ance of force; the mare, too, was a powerful
brute, in spite of the clean curve of her deli-
cate ankles; her little round feet were a dream
of delight.

DIANE DE BRAGADE.

229

Madame de Bragade kissed her twice on
the neck. De Mayeux turned hot and cold.
** If you kiss that beast again," he said, " I
shall run her owner through the chest."

She did not take her eyes from the horse-
man leaping in the distance over a bar, as she
quietly answered: " Let us understand each
other once for all, mon cher. You said some-
thing of the kind once before about Rosly.
You are a bully, and you think to bully me,
which is impossible. Whether it is possible
for you to bully Monsieur de Viroflay, I do
not know. But you shall not bully me
through him or through any one else — do you
understand? "

" Which means? " asked Mayeux, white
to his tightly contracted lips.

" Ah, you are a fool! The man who asks
a woman what she means always is. It means
that the moment I think you have interfered
between me and any one else I never, on any
account, speak a word to you again."

" That at least is explicit, Diane. Had
you said it sooner, three months ago "

" They bored me. And a man should be
able to defend himself."

" In other words, I may interfere when
they bore you."

" Undoubtedly, if you then still think it
worth your while. Do you wish me to tell

230

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

you when the moment is come? " She spoke
the last words with a palpable sneer, as Mon-
sieur de Viroflay came cantering up. Then
she patted Firefly's neck with her ungloved
hand, and deliberately kissed the animal again.

** Monsieur de Viroflay," she said, " next
autumn you must come to us at Sablieres for
some shooting. We have very fair shooting,
have we not. Monsieur de Mayeux? My hus-
band is a capital shot; that, at least, is a taste
we have in common."

She paid no attention to Hector's reply.
" Monsieur de Mayeux," she said presently,
" pray do me the favour to see if my carriage
is there."

Jaques beckoned to one of the stable
hands. A red fury flamed across Diane's fair
cheek. " Monsieur de Viroflay," she said,
" perhaps you would not mind taking the
trouble."

In three gigantic bounds the horseman
leaped across the immense inclosure into the
dark of the entry. Without further word or
look Madame de Bragade went slowly after
him. It was only in the carriage that she said
to Jaques de Mayeux:

" You bore me. That, evidently, requires
plain speaking to be understood."

Perhaps it was on account of this that she
got Hector de Viroflay to join her at Sab-

DIANE DE BRAGADE.

231

lieres before there was any question of autumn
shooting. He came in the middle of the sum-
mer, a month after the Grand Prix. Sablieres
lies a couple of miles from Bardonne, in the
heart of the Gardenage; it is almost superflu-
ous, therefore, to praise its beautiful sur-
roundings. It could not have many attrac-
tions for Diane, who was quite insensible to
any of the beauties of inanimate nature. But
she liked its solitudes, being able to people
them as she chose. Her husband was con-
stantly at Sablieres with the children. He
greeted her at the little station on her arrival
from Paris in a compartment full of dogs.

" How is Philippe? " she asked. " Is his
whooping-cough better? Yes? I am very
glad of it. Poor little fellow! Do you know,
Jean, I was almost afraid to bring Joey!
Those little gray monkeys, the veterinary sur-
geon was telling me, are exceedingly subject
to whooping-cough."

Philip is much better," said Jean.
Of course. It isn't dangerous for chil-
dren, but it always kills little gray monkeys."

"At one period the doctor feared he might
suffocate," said Jean.

" Then why did you not send for me? "
she exclaimed indignantly. " But doctors al-
ways assert that sort of thing for the sake of
their own glory and the bill."

232

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN,

" I expected you to say as much," replied
her husband quietly. " That is why I did not
send.*'

" Jean, you have a most unpleasant man-
ner of expressing things."

" I assure you, it is quite unintentional."

" That makes it all the more hopeless."
She shrugged her shoulders. " I have asked
Monsieur de Viroflay — Hector, the officer —
to join us down here."

" Alone? "

" No; some other people are coming next
week, are they not? Your sisters, I be-
lieve, and possibly your mother." She
sighed.

" Not my mother, I fancy," he answered,
with a dark flush on his cheek.
Not your mother? "
Diane, you remember that when she
stayed with us last Christmas she said she
would never come again."

** Angry women say many things, espe-
cially angry old women. But of course your
mother will do as she thinks best."

** Yes. I shall go and stay with her next
month for a little and take the children. She
adores the children."

" Naturally. What grandmother does
not? I believe when I am a grandmother I
shall ' adore the children.' "

it
it

DIANE DE BRAGADE. 233

"And this Monsieur de Viroflay, when
does he come? "

" To-morrow morning. I shall fetch
him at the station. I detest this sort of
carriage in which one can not drive one's
self."

" I took the brake, because I thought you
would like to have the dogs with you."

" So I do, thanks. But to-morrow I shall
have only one spaniel, and he can sit next to
me in the phaeton."

Jean did not consider this remark called
for any further reply.

Next morning he greeted Monsieur de
Viroflay with no excessive enthusiasm, but
also with no lack of courtesy. He had a safe
habit of leaving his guests to their own de-
vices and Diane's. As for himself, he was im-
mersed in petty business, which he transacted
admirably — the local paper was loud in his
praise — and he found plenty of time to teach
Jeannot, his eldest, aged seven, how to shoot
with a popgun and sit a small pony, while yet
he did not neglect the somewhat inferior
claims of Philippe and Dodo.

" I don't think Jeannot has grown," she

said, inspecting the small boy before her — a

small boy in yellow curls, black eyes, and tlue

velveteens. " I hope he will not remain little

like you, Jean."
16

234

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN,

" I am not of the littlest," replied Jean,
nettled.

" Nor of the biggest," she answered, with
a quick glance at Hector de Viroflay. " No
matter, though of course one would like him
to grow tall, as long as he becomes manly and
strong. I do hope he will not grow up a nin-
compoop. Jeannot, you would not like to be
a nincompoop? "

** Awhat?" asked the child.

" A nincompoop. A zany. I should hate
you if you did grow up like that! "

" Would papa hate me too," asked the
boy, " if I grew up a nincompoop? "

** Most certainly," interposed his mother
with vivacity, a faint flush on her cheek.

" I should not like to grow up a nincom-
poop," said Jeannot.

" Yet there is every danger," continued
Diane, irritated, addressing her husband.
" Run away, Jeannot, and play with the
others. I am sure that you coddle him. The
other day, in Paris, you were far too anxious
about his coat."

"He is learning to ride," replied Jean
sharply — Monsieur de Viroflay had been car-
ried off by Jeannot to see the pony — " he is
not a strong child. I do not coddle him half
so much as you coddle your little gray mon-
key."

DIANE DE BRAGADE.

23s

Coddling is good for monkeys."
So be it. Would you wish me, Diane,
to leave the coddling of the children to you? "

" No, undoubtedly it is better in your
hands. I will do what I can to make a man
of Jeannot."

" How? "

" Let me go my own way. By teaching
him not to be afraid."

" How? " The anxiety in his voice had in-
creased; an imperious note also had come
into the reiteration, which moved her to re-
sentment.

" Do I know? " she answered. " By mak-
ing him face danger when it comes."

" When it comes," he repeated. " That is
right. Diane, listen to me. I forbid you —
do you understand me? — to run any of your
mad risks with Jeannot. I forbid you."

" You forbid me?" She lay back in her
chair, half closing her eyes.

" I forbid you. You are not accustomed
to such words. It is indeed regrettable
that they should fall between husband and
wife; that there should be any occasion for

them "

It is absurd," she interrupted.
I grant you. But it is unfortunately, in
my opinion, inevitable. You will leave the
children alone. I leave you alone."

236 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KKOWN.

She did not answer. After a moment he
continued: " In some ways, of course, my po-
sition is ridiculous; I admit it, yet I do not
think I am exactly a comic husband of the
stage. With full consciousness, and deliber-
ate consideration, I leave you alone. I will
have no esclandre connected with my name,
my mother's name, my children's name. But
I am not, as you often appear to imagine, an
absolute cipher. I command you to leave the
children alone!" His voice rang out. He
stood before her, his fists clenched tight down
by his side.

"Bravo!" she exclaimed, her eyes kin-
dling. " I like you like that, Jean; why do
you not oftener show me that phase of your
character? Like that you are adorable!"

He laughed wearily. " You should have
married a trooper," he said.

" Cest vraiy' she answered. That was all.
He strolled away with his hands in his pock-
ets. She went to look for the others, some
one to talk to — she could never be one mo-
ment alone. She found Hector and Jean-
not in the stables and carried them off for a
walk.

" Where is papa? He likes walking? "
said Jeannot, preparing to start.

" Papa is with Jeambi," replied his mother
at a guess.

DIANE DE BRAGADE. 237

" He is always with Jeambi," exclaimed
Jeannot. Jean Bonami, surnamed Jeambi,
was a great personage in the Bragade house-
hold — a sort of confidential henchman, with-
out any of the wit or the insolence so often
ascribed to old family servants. He did for
de Bragade exactly as much as de Bragade
did not wish to do for himself.

The trio started, accompanied as usual by
a half-dozen dogs.

" Jeannot/' said the countess, moved by
some unadmitted compunction, " in what di-
rection would you like to go? You shall
choose your walk yourself."

" I should like to go down by the rocks,"
said Jeannot immediately, for no reason what-
ever. So they went toward the rocks, a beau-
tiful walk through sun-dotted pine forests,
ending in a sudden blaze of poppy-covered
meadow over a steep descent of precipice.
Far away sank the vine-trellised champaign,
with a riband of river entangled across it,
under the wide blueness of heaven.

" What a horrible fall," remarked Hector,
turning away.

" Does that sort of thing not tempt you
to jump? " replied Diane.

By no means. Does it you? "
To madness. I must restrain myself.
Now those blue flowers down yonder, I

238 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

should love to climb down and get them,
just for the danger of the descent."

They hung over the cliff; the child hung
over too.

They are a beautiful blue/' said Diane.
I have never noticed you care for flow-
ers. I don't believe you do," said Viroflay.

" I love flowers. Did you ever meet a
woman who didn't? "

" I never met a woman who dared to say
she didn't."

" Well, I think those blue blossoms are
exquisite. I should like immensely to have
them."

" Nobody can reach them."

'' Nobody? Pooh! a child could."

" Possibly; but even this looking down
turns me sick. I have the vertige de rabime.
I can not help myself. It is in the family."

" Nonsense. What a fancy! Jeannot," —
it was the impulse of a moment — " you could
scramble down, could you not, and get some
of those blue flowers for mamma? "

" Yes," replied Jeannot, and began to de-
scend a little bit of pathway, two of the dogs
barking madly at the top.

The child will fall," said Viroflay.
That was what your mother said, I sup-
pose," replied Diane. " It is when children
have been accustomed from their childhood

DIANE DE BRAGADE.

239

to danger that they do not shirk it in after
life."

Hector de Viroflay did not answer; he
remembered what he had said when first told
to go and pay court to Madame de Bra-
gade.

Even as the mother spoke, the boy slipped
and fell down several yards of the precipice,
rolling over and over, clutching at various
things, not crying out. The next moment he
stopped himself, clinging to a shrub, and
hung, silent, in a desperate position. The
dogs at the top barked more furiously than

ever.

You must save him," said Diane, white
to the lips.

" I will do my utmost," answered Viro-
flay, with a shrug of the shoulders.

The child's cry came up to them: " Papa! "

Viroflay prepared to descend, with the
nervous hesitation of a man who is anxious to
do what he can not. He excelled where he
was sure of success; when doubtful of his pow-
ers he was powerless. " Enfin! " he said, and
planted one cautious foot far below the other.

All the dogs now stood drawn up along
the edge, barking louder than ever. Madame
de Bragade hung over it, crying words of en-
dearment and encouragement to the child.

** It is useless! I can not," came up Viro*

240

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

flay's voice. ** Diane, I see nothing; I am
giddy; black stars swim before my eyes! "

Then more faintly: " Everything is turn-
ing around me. God! I can not even save
myself! "

With a cry she sprang down among the
bushes, swung herself from one to the other,
fell, her face full of scratches, caught at a
branch, swung down lower — the deserted ani-
mals above ran to and fro, howling and bark-
ing. The boy's call came up fainter: " Papa! "

A man's figure appeared on the height,
clear cut against the brilliant sky. Jean de
Bragade, emerging from the pine wood, had
crossed the meadow with a sudden rush; he
now stopped one moment for breath, then
slowly and firmly descended, looking neither
to the right nor left, down to Jeannot. He
took the boy in his arm and began painfully
to climb upward, gasping beneath the weight,
pausing constantly, working with hands and
knees, bidding the boy to cling close to him —
a terrible journey which he will remember all
the rest of his life. At the last moment, as he
was nearing the summit, a piece of rock, loos-
ened by all this commotion, broke away and
came rolling toward them, making straight
for Jeannot's curly head. The father, in that
moment, threw up his arm instantly to ward
off the blow; the stone struck against his

DIANE DE BRAGADE. 24 1

wrist, which dropped helpless. Half uncon-
scious, yet retaining his nerve, doing what was
necessary, though hardly aware how he did it,
Jean dragged Jeannot over the edge, and sank
down on the grass in a faint. A couple of
men were hurrying across the meadow at-
tracted by the dogs.

When Diane had succeeded in getting
Viroflay up on to terra firma again, she also,
from exhaustion and agitation, lost conscious-
ness. A few minutes later she recovered, to
find herself the centre of a curious group of
peasants, and Hector de Viroflay bending over
her, a glass of water in his hand. She took
the glass from him, and, before the astonished
yokels, dashed its contents in his face.

" Coward! " she said, and at once, rising,
. turned her back upon him for good. '* Where
is Monsieur le Comte? *' she asked. " Where
is Monsieur Jean? ''

The two were at a cottage close by, near
the road. A carriage had been sent for from
the house.

She walked thither with more or less
steady step. A couple of women at the door
stood aside to let her pass. Her husband lay
on a sort of improvised couch, on a red and
black table-cloth. His face was drawn with
pain; the right wrist lay useless by his side; it
was broken. Beside him sat Jeannot, the

242 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

muddy tears dry on his cheeks, telling, cir-
cumstantially, out of Hans Christian Ander-
sen, the long story of the " Marsh King's
Daughter." Madame de Bragade filled the
room with her dogs.

" Can I do anything for you, Jean? " she
asked helplessly. He nodded a negative.
Jeannot, with a frightened glance at his moth-
er, went on telling the tale of Helga, the cruel.
The peasant owners of the cottage listened
apathetically. " I think it is a lovely story,"
said little Jean in the middle; " don't you
think it's a lovely story, papa? "

" Lovely," replied the father sadly. Ma-
dame de Bragade played with her coUey. So
they waited. At last the sound of wheels was
heard; a victoria drew up at the door, and
Jeambi came hurrying in with restoratives,
bandages, a black neckerchief for a sling, any
number of comforts for the invalid. As soon
as the latter was ready to move, Diane
stepped forward and offered him her arm.
With a quick look at the curious eyes round
the doorway he passively allowed her to assist
him to the carriage. Its horses had barely
started before she broke out in her impetu-
ous way:

"Jean! ah, my husband! my brave! Ah,
it was splendid of you — it is thus that I love
you, my Jean! I have wronged you. You are

DIANE DE BRAGADE. 243

better than all these others! Jean, why do
not you speak to me, Jean? "

But he looked into the distance and to-
ward the background, as if watching for
something.

" You will hurt your arm," she began.
But he stopped her. They were alone in the
forest, not far from the house; there was no
longer a soul in sight.

" We will get out, Jeannot and I," he said
in a voice of command. Jeambi turned on the
box seat with attempted deprecation. His
master took no notice.

" I would rather walk," said Jean, still
very white. " The walk will do us both good.
Jeambi, I can lean on your arm. Frangois
will drive Madame la Comtesse to the house."

He got out, with some little difficulty, as
if still feeling feeble and giddy. The boy
jumped after him. Diane de Bragade sat
alone in the carriage, watching them. She
saw Jean turn aside through the trees to a
footpath, leaning heavily on Jeambi's arm,
with Jeannot on Jeambi's right, clinging close
to the old man's hand.

MADAME DE MERSY.

After a moment's hesitation the ladv's
maid opened the bedroom door.

" Madame la Marquise will pardon me,"
began the lady's maid, " but the groom of the
chamber says that a gentleman waits down-
stairs who insists that he must speak with
Madame la Marquise."

Denise de Mersey half turned; her golden
head made an aureole against the shadows
about the cot.

** The doctor!" she exclaimed in an un-
dertone, not untouched with impatience.
" But my orders were surely explicit to show
up the doctor at once! "

" It is not the doctor, Madame la Mar-
quise " — the maid hesitated — " but some one
of the family — a relation "

" I can see no one to-night. Is the child
then not ill? Who is it?"

" Some one that is anxious to surprise
Madame la Marquise. Fie, then, is the little
angel not already asleep? Can her faithful
244

MADAME DE MERSY.

245

Valerie not watch a few minutes, while Ma-
dame la Marquise descends? "

Madame de Mersey rose unwillingly.
" Yes, the child is asleep,'* she said. " I will
go down and see who is this. If she wakens
or coughs again you must call me." She
passed out of the room — ^in that many-cham-
bered Paris mansion her bedroom and the
child's.

With a grin Valerie took the vacant seat
and drew from her pocket the napoleon she
had just received and twirled it between fin-
ger and thumb till it caught a ray from the
night lamp; then, smiling, she put it back
again.

Madame de Mersy went downstairs, and
the maitre d'hotel, who had pocketed two
napoleons, flung open the drawing-room
door.

"Paul!" exclaimed Madame de Mersv.
In her voice there rang every emotion of
pleasure and annoyance and anxiety that a
woman can combine in one note.

A young naval officer, a striking stalwart
figure, stood under the chandelier.
Yes, Paul," he said.

You have come back? And your ship
was to sail to-morrow. Why this mystery? "

" Perhaps you would have refused to ad-
mit me, had you known it was I."

n
it

246 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Why, pray, should I refuse to admit
you? "

"Ah! why, indeed? There is no reason."

" Paul, when you took leave of us last
night it was for good."

" So I thought; and yet, see, I have
come back."

" But why? Is there anything wrong? "

" Oh, no," he said, " there is nothing
wrong."

She did not sit down, nor did she invite
him to do so.

" Robert is out," she remarked. " He is
dining with his sister de Praville."

"Your husband? He is out? I have
nothing to do with him."

"Paul!"

" You and I, we knew each other as chil-
dren. We were cousins; we played together,
always — we loved each other! Long before
any one had heard of Monsieur de Mersy."

"Paul, I can not stay talking here; Simone
is unwell. I must go to her."

He looked up for the first time. " Un-
well?" he said quickly, and no woman could
have withstood the swift sympathy of his
voice.

" I do not imagine it is anything serious.
I have sent for the doctor. This moment I
am expecting him."

MADAME DE MERSY. 247

" Listen to me first. I too am a suf-
ferer, of your own flesh and blood. I
too have a claim on your sympathy — a
double claim — for the suffering is through
you."

She moved back a pace, and her fingers
touched the door knob.

"I must speak!" he went on violently.
" And you will listen for one last moment! "
Her hand slipped from the handle. " Why,
pray, do you think I am come back, having
gone? My ship sails for Tonkin to-morrow.
I shall possibly never see you again; I had
taken leave of you last night in the presence
of your husband. I was gone, gone safely —
why have I come back? "

"Hush!" said Madame de Mersy, very
pale in her pale evening-dress gown, her fair
hair a yellow cloud about the whiteness of her
skin. He stopped and stared at her.

" We have known each other," she con-
tinued tremulously, " as you say, ever since
we were little children. We are cousins; we
have always been excellent comrades, friends.
Last night you came here and took leave of
us — possibly, as you say, we may never meet
again. If we do not, let us always remember
that we parted now."

" But, Denise "

" Before you had ever said anything to me

248 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

which at any time you need have reason to
regret."

He took a few paces away from her, and
then came back close.

" Never," he burst out, " never said any-
thing? Ah, but it is you that are slow to
understand! I have said it a hundred times
— twenty years have passed since I first
longed to say, since I first began saying it.
I have said — I have said — Denise, I am saying
it now! " His heart throbbed; she could hear
it, and the gasp in his throat. She leaned
against the door, her hand playing nervously
with the lock.

" Denise, have you nothing to answer me?
Ah ! I do not ask you to speak. Only look at
me — look at me once, before I go."

She kept her eyes on the floor. " Good-
bye," she said. " Paul, you never should have

come."

I know that," he replied; ** 'tis my rea-
son for coming — my only excuse."

" Any moment the doctor may be here.
I must go to Simone." And still she kept her
eyes on the floor.

" Denise " — he bent even nearer — " do
you know why I ventured to come back to-
night? You are angry with me. I had
wanted not to tell you. But I can not bear
your anger, not at this our last meeting — I

MADAME DE MERSY.

249

can not bear to leave you angry. I can not —
Denise, the possibility is the certainty. I am
going to Tonkin, but the doctors have con-
demned me. I shall never return to Prance
alive r'

"Paulf" Her eyes swept up to his: he
was answered. She dropped them again im-
mediately, and stood trembling, without an-
other word.

The sounds of hoofs had been heard on the
gravel of the courtyard; a carriage had drawn
up under the portico; a hurried summons
flashed along the electric wire.

" It is the doctor! " gasped Madame de
Mersy. For one instant Paul hesitated; then
he flung himself down on his knees, and,
catching at the passive hand on the door lock,
he covered it with kisses.

Through the folding doors of the adja-
cent boudoir, pushing aside the noiseless por-
tieres, somebody hurriedly forced an entrance
— Madame de Praville stood in the middle of
the room.

" In time! " she said. For a moment that
was all. The man had sprung to his feet.

" Thank God ! " added Madame de Pra-
ville; then, hurrying toward her sister-in-law,
she began speaking very fast.

" Denise, you must take my carriage at

once — at once, do you hear? — and hurry off
17

2SO SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

exactly as you are to the ball at the Austrian
Embassy. Your toilet is " — she cast a hur-
ried glance all over it — " fortunately satisfac-
tory; it is lucky you happen to be wearing
your diamonds; one need hardly ask you
why " — her eyes swept across to the young
officer — " come away with me instantly! I
will explain in the carriage; we have not five
minutes to waste. And you, sir, be instantly
gone! "

" I can not leave the house to-night," re-
plied Madame de Mersy calmly. ** Simone
is ill."

"Simone!" exclaimed Madame de Pra-
ville indignantly. " Is this the moment to
worry about a little girl's ailment? You, at
any rate, seem willing to forget her! " and
suddenly, across her long pallor, Madame de
Mersy flushed crimson. " You must come
at once, do you understand? In half a dozen
minutes my brother will be here. He was
dining with me alone, as you know, at the
last moment you had refused to accompany

him "

Simone,"

Quite so. He confided to me his doubts
of — luckily, he believed that last night's leave-
taking in his presence had not been final — I
know not if some false friend of Monsieur de
Sorac has betrayed him — if one of the serv-

MADAME DE MERSY. 251

ants — ^what shall we expect in a houseful of
servants — or if only his own instinct, that we
have always called jealousy "

" Madame/* said de Sorac, " you are a
woman. You are free to insult both women
and men."

" You mistake me utterly, monsieur. But
it is to you, Denise, that I address myself. Your
husband's suspicions were aroused "

" Aroused! '* exclaimed Denise bitterly.

" By your refusal to accompany him.
* The child has a cold,' he said, * but the cold
is an excuse.' I laughed at him for his sense-
less jealousy — ^have I not done so a hundred
times in your presence, calling him Othello,
warding off unpleasantnesses, making things
supportable. Ah! I grant you he was insup-
portable — as long as I believed you were in-
jured — I who a hundred times have wept with
you!"

" You have seen me weep twice," said
Madame de Mersy. An oath broke through
the clenched teeth of de Sorac.

" Swear at my brother to his face! " ex-
claimed the Marquise de Praville. ** He will
be delighted, monsieur, to make answer. But
you come with me instantly, Denise. Oh,
come instantly! Come, as you value happi-
ness, your heart's rest, your reputation, your
home! " She ran forward and caught her

252 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

sister-in-law by the arm, but Madame de Mer-
sy shook her off.

" My home," said Madame de Mersy, " is
with the child. And with her I remain."

" Robert, when he finds you guilty, he
will kill that man there, and you! Girl, have
you not yet learned what is jealousy? Com-
mand your lover to go! "

" I am innocent ! " cried, purple to the fin-
ger tips, Madame de Mersy.

" Innocent? What care I for your meas-
ure of innocence? Do you think that we
want in our family a rehearsal of the society
novel that never occurs? If Robert finds that
man here we are lost ! "

Madame de Mersy turned to her cousin.
" Go, Paul,' she said. " God bless you always
and everywhere. Good-bye."

Madame de Praville beat her foot on the
floor. " Eh bien, monsieur," she said, " you
have your farewell."

The young man paused at the door.
" Madame," he said slowly, " if I leave my
cousin at this moment, unprotected, it is be-
cause I place her in your hands. You will de-
fend her. She is pure as the angels in heaven."

" Your presence here," was the answer,
" is the only danger that threatens Madame
de Mersy."

Without further parley Paul held out his

MADAME DE MERSY. 253

hand to his cousin; she did not immediately
take it, in the conflict of her thoughts.

" Bah, ne vous genes pas,*' sneered Madame
de Praville.

Then with proud deUberation, looking full
into the young man's pleading eyes, Denise
laid her hand in the one extended toward her
and allowed it to rest there, while he slowly
kissed it twice. The next moment she was
alone with her sister-in-law.

"And I," burst out the other woman,
" believed in you! "

" You may believe in me still," wearily re-
sponded Denise.

" What? Do you, a woman, dare to tell
me, a woman, that you do not love the man
who has just left this room? "

" All your words may be true, Edmonde,
but your thought at this moment is a lie."

" A lie — R, lie? And I, who have pitied
you from the moment of your marriage! "

" You may pity me still."

The other stood back, and in scorn, in
fury, in bitter sorrow, said, almost whispering:

" Marquise de Mersy."

** If you believed in me so utterly, why did
you hasten here tb-riight to— ^warn me? "

" Utterly? — no. I believed in you as
much as one woman ever believes in another.
Denise, I have been here for nearly five min-

254 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

utes already. Robert was on foot; I ought
to have, at the utmost, ten minutes' start.
Will you come with me now, at once? — for
the last time I ask it — saving everything a
woman holds dear? "

" Everything? I hold one thing dear —
the child."

" Is that all? And your honour? "

" Why, pray, should my honour be
touched if my husband finds me at home? "

" Because he will touch it — because — ^be-
cause — oh, mad woman, choose your choice!
I must tell you, then. At least, now we are
alone, it is possible to tell you. Monsieur de
Sorac has a rival, or you have a friend — can
you comprehend? "

" No."

" Keep your own counsel. But Robert
received in my drawing-room, to-night, a let-
ter advising him to surprise you with Mon-
sieur de Sorac."

"Well? He will not surprise me with
Monsieur de Sorac."

" Your sangfroid is admirable; I could
never have believed it. He will say that he
came too early — ^it is for fear of this he now
walks so slow — he will find you waiting, with
your diamonds on! "

Madame de Mersy snatched with eager
hands at the radiant splendour around her

MADAME DE MERSY. 255

neck and tore it away in a sprinkle of glitter-
ing shreds on the floor. Her sister-in-law
screamed aloud.

" Take back your diamonds! " cried Ma-
dame de Mersy, her white chest panting, op-
pressed. "You — ^you are one of your race;
like him, you think all women sell themselves
for jewels and houses and titles and — God! I
wish I could cast them back to you both as
I trample on these chains which my par-
ents -"

Madame de Praville, running forward,
thrust her back.

" You are mad, indeed," gasped Madame
de Praville; " these jewels are ours. Insult the
memory of your parents, if you will; you shall
not insult, madame, the name that you bear
since six years — ^a name that was never sullied
before. You shall come with me nozv. When
that letter arrived, I, not knowing what to
think, resolved to save your peace and my
brother's; I laughed and I swore it was a pal-
pable calumny, for this morning you had said
in my presence you would be at the Austrian
ball to-night! A note was brought me on
the staircase; I seized on the opportunity — I
went back to him — I said it was from you —
that Simone was better — that you would join
me at the embassy — he asked to see the let-
ter — I refused, as if offended — I tore here

256 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

as fast as my horses could carry me — I
have wasted six minutes — ^he is following —
Denise, when he comes here, with that
note in his pocket, he must not find you
at home! " Madame de Praville stooped,
and, with angry impatience, began gath-
ering together the broken bits of the
chain.

" I am innocent;'* said Denise. " My life
is a curse to me. Your brother has made it
so. I must wait for the doctor. I must stay
with the child."

Madame de Praville raised herself from
the ground. " See that you stay with the
child,'' she said meaningly. '' The moment
that Robert accepts his own accusations — al-
ready he has spoken of it — he does not leave
you another day with the child."

''My child!" cried Denise. "The law
will protect me."

" The law protects children against the
women their fathers have divorced. Ah! you
compel me to speak plainly. All is at stake.
You are innocent, you say? It is possible.
Is that why I discover your cousin kissing
your hands, at your feet? The ladies of our
house, madame, must learn another inno-
cence than that. Either instantly you fol-
low me — ^before yon second hand has trav-
elled around again— or / speak — ^and Simone,

MADAME DE MERSY.

257

trust me, will be placed under other guardian-
ship than yours."

For a moment the two women faced each
other. Then, without another word, Ma-^
dame de Mersy passed into the anteroom.
Her cloak and fan lay ready. The groom of
the chambers, watchfully impassive, took
them from an ottoman. The maid crept
downstairs.

" Does the child sleep, Valerie? "

" Not yet, Madame la Marquise."

" What? Why not? Has she coughed? "

" A little, Madame la Marquise. Her
nurse is with her now. She is restless, not ill."

The mother, her cloak already about her
neck, turned in the entrance hall.

" I must run up for one moment," she
said.

" It is impossible! " exclaimed Madame de
Praville in English.. " If he sees my carriage
here, all is lost " — and in French: "You would
only disturb the child, my dear. She is prob-
ably just dropping off, is she not, Valerie? "
Madame de Mersy hesitated; her sister-in-
law caught her by the arm.

Valerie's eyes dropped before the swift
command in Madame de Praville's.

" Oh ! yes ; she will soon be asleep. She
is not ill," said Valerie.

In an hour I shall be back," said Denise.

258 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" If the doctor comes, he must wait. I can
not understand about the doctor."

The groom of the chambers stepped for-
ward. " There has just come a message from
the doctor's, Madame la Marquise. He was
not at home; they have sent for him."

Madame de Praville looked round, in the
doorway, with her hand still on her sister-in-
law's arm.

" I have not been here to-night, you un-
derstand, Josephe — and you, Valerie. It is
half an hour since Madame la Marquise drove
off to the Austrian Embassy. You must tele-
phone instantly for the carriage to meet her
there. You understand? "

" Perfectly," said the groom of the cham-
bers.

"The other servants — they do not count,"
said Madame de Praville in English, as one
footman stood waiting by the brougham.
He does not speak to them."

You insult me — before these! " said Ma-
dame de Mersy.

Madame de Praville did not answer, the
charge seemed to her so manifestly unfair.
As the carriage rolled out of the courtyard
on to the Cours de la Reine she gave a great
gasp of relief. " The honour of our house,"
she muttered 'twixt her teeth, " to have hung
on a hair! " Then in the sudden revulsion

MADAME DE MERSY. 259

of feelings she began heaping warnings, re-
proaches, threats, and entreaties on the young
Marquise de Mersy.

The latter sat silent, with face averted,
watching the lights flash by. She hardly
heard the Other lady's words; they did not
touch her. She was thinking of the early
home life in the quiet Touraine woods, of her
fortunate marriage, her splendid existence —
above all, Simone. And Paul had said that
he was dying; he would never come back;
she would never see Paul again.

" How so — ^you answer nothing? ** cried
Madame de Praville.

Denise turned her face. " It is no use;
you do not understand me. Think all the evil
of me, if you will. Perhaps you are right.
But I — I have been faithful to Robert. Ed-
monde, he would rob me of my child."

" Promise me that you will receive no
more visits! " entreated Madame de Praville.

Denise threw back her head, incapable of
reply. The tears shot into her eyes and stood
there.

The carriage, which had been creeping up
the line, now stopped in the blaze of the en-
trance. Madame de Praville looked out.
** The coast seems clear," she said. " I will
go. Do you come ten minutes later. One
can never be sure."

26o SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

And, indeed, the first person Madame de
Praville saw among the crowd on the stair-
case was her brother, standing expectant.

" You? " she said coolly. " I thought you
were going home. Is Denise already here? ''

" No,'* he answered gloomily. " What a
time you have taken ! **

" Very sure; I have spent ten long minutes
in the ' file.* Robert, I have so often said
things to you, I should like to say a thing
to-night."

"Well?"

"Hush! I do not like -Denise; I have
never pretended to like her. Of that you are
sufficiently aware."

" I am indeed."

"But in suspecting her, in accusing her,
as you do, you wrong her absolutely — once
for all I say it — I am not laughing to-night.
A woman like Denise does not flirt with her
cousins. It is no use reasoning with a jealous
man — I know it — but I — I dare to tell you.
Your thought is the thought of a fool. Take
me to monseigneur."

She had struck at him boldly with the
one word that, in a man of his character,*
strikes home. . She knew it, and, despite her
high mettle, she trembled as, with tight-
pressed lips, he offered her his arm.

A few moments later Denise de Mersy

MADAME DE MERSY. 261

entered the ball-room. Her face was set, and
even her eyes were almost calm. Madame de
Praville avoided looking in the direction of
her brother. The marquis flushed with tran-
sitory contrition; he checked a sudden im-
pulse to go up to his wife and be kind.

" De la tenue! " he said to himself. " Do
not let us make fools of ourselves in public.
Neither in public nor in private/' he added.
And he thought, with an ugly scowl, of his
sister's ugly word. He was not the sort of
man that makes a fool of himself on purpose.
He went and talked to other women, as was
his right, pleasantly, sometimes prettily, with
compliments neatly turned, with flashes of the
cynic wit that only hurts at home. Occa-
sionally his furtive glance stole across in
search of his wife. She was a beautiful wom-
an; men thought her beautiful and gathered
around her. It was fit she should be beautiful.
She was almost too beautiful for comfort.

He lost sight of her; half an hour later he
found her, in another room, with two young
officers; they were talking and laughing. He
drew her aside.

" Denise," he said, " you have actually
forgotten to put on your necklace. It is like
you to come to a great entertainment and
neglect to finish dressing. Did you not no-
tice that your neck is bare? "

262 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" I was in a hurry," she said. " You
remember I had dressed to go with you
to your sister's. I was anxious to come
early.*'

" Why? " A sudden suspicion leaped
into his eye.

" I do not intend to stay long."

" Ah! Well, I think you had much better
go back at once. Forgive my saying it, but
the effect is absurd. I shall stay."

She did not inquire how long, so he care-
fully told her. ** I shall not be in till quite
late," he said.

She hardly heard him. "Home!" that
was all she thought. " Would you get me my
carriage? " she asked, endeavouring to check
the eagerness in her voice. He bowed, watch-
ing her closely, all his suspicions again sud-
denly alight. A few moments later her horses
were hurrying her homeward, the very ca-
dence of their hoofs on the pavement repeat-
ing " Simone."

In the entry the groom of the chambers
awaited her. The agitation of his manner
sent the blood to her throat.

" What is it? " she exclaimed.

"Ah! Madame la Marquise, we had sent
to the embassy. Thank God! you are come.
Another doctor is with her, the first we could
summon. The poor little darling " But

MADAME DE MERSY. 263

Madame de Mersy was already halfway up the
stairs.

In the long corridor Valerie met her weep-
ing. " I know," said Madame de Mersy, but
she did not believe herself.

A strange physician was in the bedroom;
a couple of women servants were helping him.
Madame de Mersy went straight to the cot.
" What is it? " she said. " What is the mat-
ter? The child is asleep.'*

No one answered her. She knelt down in
a great rustle and glitter, and lightly touched
her daughter's forehead. One of the servants
moved, and a ray from the lamp crossed the
pillow. With a shriek that filled the house
the mother rose erect. The women burst out
crying.

"Speak — ^you! What has happened?"
said Madame de Mersy.

" A convulsion, Madame la Marquise. It
must have come suddenly in the midst of her
coughing. There can have been very little
pain."

** The doctor! Our doctor! Forgive me,
monsieur; I hardly know what I am saying.
But see, you are a stranger! Something must
be done, and that instantly. Valerie! Jo-
sephe! It can not be too late! Our own doc-
tor! God! where is our good doctor Du-
seau?

264 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Here, madame — calm yourself — I
am here " — the house doctor came hurry-
ing in. He examined the little body; he
held whispered consultation with his col-
league; Madame de Mersy stood watch-
ing. ** It is the will of God," said the
doctor tremulously. " Dear madame, had I
been present, I could have done nothing
more.'*

The mother sank to the ground. " Had
I been here," she said, " she would not have
died." And at this word she dropped her
head on her hands and lay still.

The lady's maid broke into loud lamenta-
tion and self-reproach. It was some time be-
fore her mistress heard — still longer before
she understood her. Simone, then, had been
feverish, had been coughing badly, when her
mother left the house, but Madame de Pra-
ville had signed to Valerie to keep silence.
No one, of course, could have foreseen any
serious complication. The healthiest child,
as every one knows, may be suddenly struck
dead by convulsions. The doctor nodded
assent.

At last Madame de Mersy understood.
She looked up. " God will forgive you," she
said. " He forgives everything."

" Doctor, is it absolutely hopeless? "

" Ah, madame ! "

MADAME DE MERSY. 265

" If you please, I would be alone."

But already Josephe was whispering at
the door.

The child's nurse approached her mis-
tress. " Monsieur le Marquis has come
home." No one had ventured to tell
him.

"Ah!" said Denise. Even at that mo-
ment she realized why he had hastened home,
what he had expected to find. " I will go to
him," she said.

. She passed down into the great hall, her
jewels flashing all about her, the famous Mer-
sy tiara erect upon her brow.

He was in the little drawing-room,
where Paul had knelt to her barely an
hour ago. He was pacing the room in
agitation; he turned as she entered, and at
once:

" Your cousin de Sorac has been here,"
he said. He noticed her terrible pallor — ^the
agony of her set features; a red mist of rage
crossed his eyes.

" Yes," she said.

He stood staring at her, uncertain in his
fury, his misery, what to do next.

" Simone is dead," she said.

He stood staring.

She went on speaking, automatically, as

if it had been some one else. " She died quite
x8

266 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

suddenly. In a convulsion. The doctor says
that nothing can be done."

" Denise! " he cried, and stretched out
both arms to her, all his ungovernable passion
for her surging to his breast.

" No," she said.

MEESS.

The story of Meess begins at Malvern.
One can see her in the little dusk-red house
semi-detached, with " apartments," sitting of
evenings with her mother, the curate's widow,
trying to make both ends meet. What if
they did meet, on paper, prospectively? In
reality something always went amiss. The
two boys were growing up and had to be
kept at the college; Milly was nearly eighteen
and wanted smart frocks — Cicely had never
wanted smart frocks; some lodger they had
built their modest hopes on was sure to stop
away. It is said that drowning people come
up three times; those who go down in the
social struggle never seem to get a change of
air. If it is true that nothing succeeds like
success, my God! nothing fails more persist-
ently than failure.

When Cicely explained to her mother
that she. Cicely, must go out as a nursery
governess, and that Millicent must take her
place at home, Mrs. Thyghe nodded tearful

267

268 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

acquiescence. Cicely had long dreaded and
put off the painful moment. An unusually
terrible butcher's bill helped her through.

" Yes, I suppose it is inevitable," replied
Mrs. Thyghe.

" And the inevitable is never very diffi-
cult," said Cicely bravely.

" Why not, my dear? "

"Oh! that would be illogical, as papa
would have said."

" Your poor papa! He understood every
logic in the world, excepting that two and
two don't make five."

And so Cicely, more logical than her fa-
ther, came to Holland as nursery governess
to the Van den Hills. There had naturally
been a good deal of preliminary discussion
and consideration, for to the eyes of middle
class Malvern Holland seemed farther away
than Tasmania.

" It sounds terribly foreign," said poor
Mrs. Thyghe; "and the people all live in
boats."

She gathered but little comfort from the
information, vouchsafed by the doctor's wife,
that many of them lived on poles. " Like
St. Simon Skylights," said Millicent, who
was ignorant, wore a fringe, and could not
have gone out as a governess After all, it
seemed the best thing that Cicely should ac-

MEESS. 269

cept the place her former schoolmistress had
found for her. Miss Budge wrote to say that,
by all accounts, the Netherlands were the
paradise of governesses; nowhere are they
treated so entirely as members of the family.
Cicely smiled sadly; it seemed so funny to
think that she should be a member of the fam-
ily Van den Hills.

But when she arrived, with the last tear
dried upon her bonny cheeks, among the low,
cow-filled meadows under early autumn mists,
at the big old house asleep behind its beech
trees; when she arrived, half sick from her
journey, among the strangeness and foreign-
ness and undesired picturesqueness of it all,
she found kindly people waiting to receive
her. The Van den Hills were wealthy; they
lived, summer and winter, at their beautiful
chateau in the country, away from everybody
and everything; he nursing his artistic tem-
perament on leisurely contemplation of the
beautiful, she engrossed in her delicate health.
There were two little girls of five and seven,
yellow-haired tots, whom their father con-
sidered as possibilities of beautiful develop-
ment, physical and psychical; while their
mother looked upon them as a moral and re-
ligious responsibility.

" I trust you will help me," said Me-
vrouw Van den Hill, lying back among her

270

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

sofa cushions and trying not to look tired.
" I trust you will help me, Miss Tigg, in be-
labouring the bodies and souls of my chil-
dren."

Cicely blushed. " I am very young, ma-
dam," she murmured. " I trust you will help
me. I shall try to do my best." She won-
dered whether Mevrouw Van den Hill would
always call her " Tigg," and whether it would
always be possible to understand the foreign
lady's meaning. She seemed to hear her
mother's voice: " Yes, ours is an unusual

name. My poor, dear husband's father "

but the reader may be spared the rest. Cicely
smiled.

" She is good looking," said Mynheer to
his wife. " Very fair skinned and fair haired.
Only eighteen, is she? A pretty, pleasant-
looking girl."

" I showed you the photograph," an-
swered Mevrouw; " she was not so pretty on
the photograph."

Mynheer laughed. "All the better for
her," he said. " You women are so jealous.
Did you treat her to your stereotype phrase
about * belabouring the children '? "

" I told her I hoped she would share a re-
sponsibility which "

" Yes, yes; I know. I know all you are
going to say, dear. No, I can not ' belabour

MEESS. 271

the children/ Stick to your phrase; it is a
good one."

"What do you mean?" she asked inno-
cently.

He kissed her with affection, and laughed
himself out of the room.

He was a good-natured, easy-going man,
not yet forty, who took life easily (as he found
it) and wished every one else to do so. It
was one of his staple regrets that there were
people in the world with less money, or with
more, than he had. With more, because that
prevented his buying beautiful objects others
could pay higher prices for; with less, because
he wanted all the children on this earth to get
as much cake as they could eat. His children
did not get so much cake as they could eat.
But that was Mevrouw Van den Hill's doings.
And Mynheer complained, chaffingly, to all
who came near of his invalid wife's devotion
and sense of duty — her strenuousness, in a
word.

" She is like the flies," he used to say.
** They lie on their backs and kick up a com-
motion." And then he would kiss her, lest
she would think that he meant it. Which he
partly did.

Mevrouw Van den Hill was one of those
rare women whose pure touch can rest on
pitch undefiled. She lived sinless, in a world

272 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

of sin, and deemed herself a sinner. Carefully
brought up in a sheltered country house,
married at twenty to a distant neighbour she
had always liked; cultured, comfortably estab-
lished, caressed; she joined in gay conversa-
tion and even read, without pleasure, an oc-
casional naughty novel, yet all the time she
never understood what evil was. Deeply re-
ligious herself, it was her earnest desire that
all should share her happiness, but she never
obtruded her sentiments or opinions on those
who were neither anxious nor ready to hear
them. In any case, the powers at her dis-
posal were small; she had always been more
or less an invalid, and, at the time of Cicely's
arrival, her energy alone still kept her semi-
erect.

The English girl had not been two days
in the house before she discovered that she
would be neither Miss Tigg nor Miss Tighe
for the rest of her story there, but ** Meess "
once for all. It was Meess from morning till
night. The children went calling her all over
the place, eager to show her their treasures.
After a time the treasures were shown, the
strangeness and newness and picturesqueness
had worn oflf. Nothing but the monotony re-
mained.

It was surely the dullest house that ever
a full-blooded man found himself compelled

MEESS.

273

to reside in. Old, dingy, draughty, deplor-
able in its internal arrangements, delightfully
quaint with its turrets and wainscots, beauti-
fully furnished, full of tapestry and carving;
a bit of sixteenth-century history, pros and
cons. In the summer it was bright with old
Dutch floral devices that nobody ever saw but
the weary owners, for the health of the man-
sion's mistress prohibited visits of any kind.
As the autumn deepened the flowers went
slowly dead in rainy silence; the white mists
gathered about the rotting trees. Nobody
ever rang at* the gate, unless it was a beggar.
Then various faces would appear at various
windows, curiously gazing across the drip-
ping court. Mynheer Van den Hill stood, his
hands in his pockets, wishing he could wish
for a chat with the beggars, whom the coach-
men had orders never to admit but to send,
more or less satisfied, away.

In that heavy silence of secluded life the
only thing distinctly noticeable from day to
day was the mother's fainting gasp up moun-
tain slopes of duty, whose snowy summits
mocked her from the clouds. Occasionally,
when she fell and hurt herself, her nervous
husband would stop and chide. Otherwise
he was as full of devotion as she of care; to-
gether they bore the double weight of ill
health and ineffective " treatments." To-

274 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

gether they endured the worry of a household
they could neither reduce nor employ. To-
gether they did all they could for the children,
he laughingly, she with pedagogic intensity,
both with a plenitude of isolated love.

" It is very quiet," wrote Cicely to her
mother, putting things mildly, " but every
one is so kind. Madam is an angel on earth,
a human, delicate angel; the children are dar-
lings; Mynheer is most amusing, clever, and
courteous. I am surprised to find the queer,
quaint little country so lovely. Every one
looks contented and comfortable. The hills
at the back of the house," etc. That is not
the story.

The story is that, before Cicely had been
many weeks in the house, the Dorsvelds came
to stay in it. The Dorsvelds were a young
married couple, cousins and intimate friends
of the Van den Hills — in fact, they were the
only guests that ever crossed the sunken
threshold of " Braswyck." The Baron van
Dorsveld, light and jolly, fond of all things
rough and ready, was not the companion to
seem most suited for this sensitive and cul-
tured recluse of the castle, whom, however,
he shook out of his melancholy broodings and
triumphantly cheered up. But the beauti-
ful, accomplished young baroness — an Arab
yoked to a cob— was a fit associate for men

MEESS. 275

or for women, for demigods or — herself child-
less — for babes. She brought, immediately,
light into the dark halls of the mansion; her
sweet presence, the healthy tones of her voice,
seemed to linger where she passed. Her
pretty smile, like a sunbeam, fell across the
heart of the poor young nursery governess,
who wrote home enthusiastic accounts of the
exquisite, soft-hearted creature. The guests
only stayed two days, and disappeared. But
the brightness of their visit faded slowly, like
an afterglow.

The governess had settled down to her
duty. It was not an arduous one. The little
girls were too small to need much teaching;
they liked her, and of course she liked them;
was that not the interest and the pleasure of
her life? She felt an affectionate regard for
their struggling, resolute mother, and she ad-
mired the resignation and all-pervading " ar-
tisticity " of Mynheer. She also admired his
caustic wit, which judged all creation from a
vantage point. "She laughs in the right
places," said Mevrouw.

" Does anybody laugh in this house? "
asked Mynheer, who was in a desponding
mood. " I haven't heard any one laugh since
Dora Dorsveld left."

So the weeks went on and seemed to stand
still, and yet noiselessly brought the great

2/6 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

change nearer. For, one morning, the gov-
erness, coming in to inquire whether the chil-
dren should wear their thingummies or their
whatdyecallems, found Mevrouw in a dead
faint on the floor. She had never seen other
illness than the boys' bad colds and her moth-
er's megrims (which she had always most pa-
tiently tended); she ran out, much startled,
and ran up against Mynheer, who certainly
loitered too much in the hall among his bric-
a-brac. He was as terrified and as useless as
she; the lady's maid, quick, collected, accus-
tomed, put them aside and brought her mis-
tress to.

" It is nothing! The room was too hot,"
said Mevrouw Van den Hill.

But his smouldering fears had leaped up
into a flame. From the maid he extracted a
confession that her mistress was often like
this; that often the faithful wife and mother
had fainted as the door closed on the husband
and children she had smiled on to the last;
that sometimes even, if Mynheer had sud-
denly returned for one more question, she had
risen again by sheer force of affection to give
him a reply. Mynheer kissed his wife very
solemnly that night, and asked permission to
send for a great doctor all the way from Ber-
lin. They were rich, and he thought they
could afford it. However rich you are, you

MEESS.

^17

can never be sure with the great doctors of
to-day.

They had gone through many lesser con-
sultations and subsequent treatments — all
failures. They knew that no commotion on
earth, no battle or tempest strikes such last-
ing desolation into an affectionate home as a
modern specialist's visit. In a few deliberate
sentences the physician tells you what must
be done — ^it is always the impossible — and you
see him depart to the station, a kid-gloved
blizzard.

Professor von Schrump said Mevrouw Van
den Hill must come to his " klinik " in Berlin.
She had better come at once. She must come
alone. She must hold no communication of
any kind with her relatives while there. Yes,
they might write — if they died.

So, after much weighing and weeping,
Mevrouw went. She could speak no German.
Everybody was kind to her, and she thanked
them.

And the lonely little nursery governess at
the chateau discovered how the sick mistress
on her sofa had been the prop and guide of
the whole household. Yet, in the desolated
home, everybody rose to the occasion. The
servants, left pretty much to themselves, ac-
cepted the responsibility; the little g^rls were
good; the master, white and still, in an agony

2/8 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

of Straining doubt and anxiety, consulted with
Cicely about the children's winter clothing,
and, once a week, examined their copybooks,
their little pitiful sums. The English girl,
utterly forlorn, alone in the schoolroom even-
ing after evening, with the howl of the wind
and the latest news from far away Malvern,
never let Mynheer Van den Hill see her red
eyes, and one day, of deliberate resolve,
stopped crying altogether.

The professor, after a month's silence, sent
a letter, written by some amanuensis, to say
that he had received all remittances and
Mynheer must double them, for Mevrouw
required a second room. Mynheer told
" Meess " about this and about other mat-
ters; they fell into occasional talks about
Mevrouw or about Cicely's little circle in her
own country, kindly, courteous gossip with
inevitably increasing interest in each other's
affairs and in each other. And gradually
there deepened upon her innocent heart a
great liking for the quiet, gentle-souled man
with the pale-blue eyes and sorrowful haughty
face, who said such caustic things and did
such kind ones. All the more was this the
case after one December evening, when she
had crept down, quite against her custom, be-
fore her own late supper, crept down along the
silent passages to ask him something about

MEESS.

279

the children's holidays. She had knocked at
the library door, which stood ajar, and, be-
lieving him to. have answered, she entered.
He was standing in evening dress by the great
window, from which he had thrown back the
curtains; a wild wind was beating the rain
against the panes.

" My God! " he gasped, staring out into
the darkness. And then she understood his
first utterance to have been a groan.

She crept away, trembling, to weep over
her untasted meal in her room.

Next morning he came in to the children's
breakfast, laughing, full of a sleighing party
he had organized for them all.

" I have written," he said, " to the Baron
and Baroness van Dorsveld, asking them to
come here for Christmas. If she consents we
must have some sort of festivities; in any case,
I should like to give the servants their usual
Christmas tree. But I can not do it unless
the Baroness Dorsveld consents to play host-
ess and help me. There are a couple of hun-
dred parcels and presents to get ready: I can't
do all that."

" Perhaps I could help," suggested Cicely
timidly. " At home I used to help with the
Sunday-school Treat."

" By all means," he said heartily; " that
would be delightful. But I shall not begin

28o SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

the whole thing unless Meyrouw Dorsveld
comes."

" We can help, papa," said the children.

" Even in that case, I dare say we should
get ready," he answered, laughing again.
" But first I must have Mevrouw Dorsveld's
answer."

The latter lady showed the letter to her
husband. " It will be an awful bore," he said.
She did not answer.

" Don't you think it would be a bore? "

" I hardly know. Braswyck will certainly
not be amusing. But then, you see, I am
very fond of Lorence Van den Hill. He
amuses me." She looked down at the open
letter in her hand.

" I can see nothing funny in him," replied
her husband.

"Well, no; I suppose not. His is still
champagne."

" I like still champagne," said the baron.

" Well, then, I don't know. To me Lor-
ence is exceedingly exhilarating, and you find
him dull. He is passing through a terrible
experience. I think, Fritz, we had better go."

" Very well ; don't expect me to stay there
all the time, though. How ever you can find
him amusing! Why, he never has a real jolly,
noisy, roaring laugh."

She shuddered slightly. ** Do you mean,"

MEESS. 281

she said, " that you will leave me there and —
and go to The Hague? "

His eyes met hers. " I — I don't know
about The Hague," he answered; " but I
shouldn't stay at Braswyck."

"Oh! by all means go to The Hague,"
she said, and swept from the room.

He bent over his finger tips, studying the
nails. " Did she expect to marry a Puritan? "
he reflected. And, after a considerable pause:
" No, she is by no means a fool. She can not
have expected to marry a Puritan."

She had not. They went out a great deal
for the next week or so, and were very merry.
Then, some ten days before Christmas, they
journeyed away into the snow and the black
gauntness of the forests and the gray depths
of lowering sky.

" It is very good of you to come," said
Lorence Van den Hill, meeting them at the
great hall door.

" Well, yes it is," replied Dorsveld, stamp-
ing the snow from his boots.

" In fact, I meant your wife. Of course
you go where she goes."

" Why, pray? " Van Dorsveld stared.

" Because you are a lucky man to have so
charming a companion."

" H'm. The girls have grown. Good-
evening, Meess."

282 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

The beautiful baroness turned. "Ah,
you are there? " she said. " Good-evening,
Meess. It is you will have to show us our
rooms."

"No; allow me, pray," said Van den
Hill, interposing. The governess drew back
alarmed. The master of the house intended
to remain the master. He performed his du-
ties during the following days with accentu-
ated accuracy.

" We are more comfortable," said the bar-
oness to her husband, " than in his dear wife's
time."

"That is true," replied Fritz; "yet I am
going off to-morrow, the house is too ter-
ribly dull. You won't mind, will you? I sup-
pose it's all proper. There are the governess
and the children."

" Don't go," she said suddenly.

"Oh! but I must. What nonsense?
Why? "

" Don't go, Fritz." Her voice was so
unexpectedly earnest, he stopped untying
his tie.

" Of course I'll stay if you want me to,"
he answered fretfully, " but it's awfully hard
on me; I've been here two days. I warned
you beforehand. And you surely don't want
me; you get on capitally with Lorence. You
can sing duets with him all the evening, as

MEE^S. 283

you did to-night; it's awfully slow for a fel-
low. La — i! La— boom! for hours/*

She stood fingering her bracelets. " I
thought you liked our singing," she said.
" You said it was very good. Why," she
turned on him angrily, ** you said we reminded
you of Patti and Reszke in the bedroom scene
of Romeo and Juliet ! "

" Well, a chap doesn't want to make him-
self disagreeable "

She barely heeded him. Taking a few
steps into the far dusk of the gaunt chamber,
she sang:

" Non, non, ce n*est pas, ce n*est pas Talouette ;
C'est le doux rossignol, compagnon de Tamour."

She came back to him. " Why, I should
never have sung it," she said, " but for your
pleasure. Why should I sing it? Don't go,
Fritz!"

" Oh, come! that's hard on a fellow. And
me that never pretended really to care for
music! "

" True. Lorence loves it and never gets
it. His wife doesn't sing or play."

" His wife's ill. What's the use of a wife
that's always ill? "

**Ah! What would you do, had you a
wife that was always ill? "

" Take another that wasn't, and nobody.

284 ^^^ WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

surely, could object. I wonder if he makes
love to the little governess? She's very
pretty."

" I have not noticed," replied the baron-
ess, her sweet voice gone disagreeable. And
then, as he rudely laughed : " What foolish-
ness," she said. " The Meess! Lorence Van
den Hill is not the sort of man to make love
to a Meess."

" When is his wife coming back? "

" No one knows. The doctor writes noth-
mg."

Van Dorsveld whistled. " She had better
look out," he said. His manner exasperated
her, but, checking her annoyance:

" Fritz," she repeated, " don't go and
leave me alone in this place."

" Well, I won't," he answered g^mbling-
ly. And she kissed him, flinging both arms
around his neck. But two days later — ^and
certainly the days passed very slowly — ^he
came to her, as she sat cheerfully busy with
the others, among the piles of Christmas
things.

** I have a letter," he said, and he held it in
his hand, ** about important business. I fear
I really must leave to-night."

" Oh ! " she answered, looking down at the
gilt trifle she was making for the tree. " Is
it The Hague? "

MEESS. 285

« "\7'^~ »

YesJ

" How long will you be away? "

" Some ten days, I fear. Over Christmas,
of course, and perhaps even over New Year's
Day. It's a very great "

She interrupted him, with a swift shock as
their eyes met.

" So long? " she said, " Why not make
it Paris? " and then she began talking very
fast to " Meess."

" There's still such a great deal to do,'*
she declared. " Why, Christmas is only two
days hence. We shall all be very busy."

" The house is quite bright and jolly,"
said Lorence — Fritz pulled a face, as he turned
away — " and since you came, Dora, every-
body seems to know exactly what to dOi
None of us did before."

"Oh, papa! Meess always does!" cried
the elder girl in a flush.

An awkward pause ensued. " I was judg-
ing by myself," said the father humbly, and
Cicely cast him a grateful smile.

" My dear Lorence," Fritz paused on his
way out, " look after my wife! " He laughed
heartily over this joke.

" I shall ask one of my cousins Weylert
to join me here," said the baroness quietly.
" You might have given me fairer warning,
Fritz; you had plenty of time."

286 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

I only heard this morning."
Yes, yes; I was thinking of the night
before last. Well, I shall telegraph for Mary
Weylert."

But at that time of the year neither Mary
Weylert could come, nor her sister, nor any
one else. So Christmas found the little com-
pany at Braswyck still curiously incomplete,
but too busy to care about considerations.
The great tree was lighted up in the wain-
scoted hall, and the gaping retainers (they
gaped yearly) gathered round the piles of la-
boriously assorted presents. One of them in
taking leave started a sentiment about Me-
vrouw's return, and all who came after him
mechanically put down a heavy foot on the
same sore spot.

" Thank you," said the master; " thank
you." But he thanked Cicely in very differ-
ent tones for the care of his motherless chil-
dren. She trembled so she could make no
answer; nor dared she venture to offer him
openly the card she had carefully illuminated
with words of hope and trust. Not in the
baroness's presence; that lady, though secret-
ly condescending still, seemed to dampen the
schoolroom's enjoyment of the festival. The
little, soft-hearted governess humbly placed
her card on Mynheer's writing table, where
the baroness happened to see it when she ran

MEESS. 287

in to inscribe a brief response to her husband's
telegraphic " Merry Christmas! "

On the evening of that holy eve, as all
were going to their rooms worn out, the Bar-
oness van Dorsveld, stopping on the landing,
addressed herself suavely to the governess.

*' It has been enjoyable," she said, " but
tiring. The circumstances, of course, are
sad."

"Yes; oh! I do hope madam will soon
come back," replied Cicely.

The lady cast a keen glance at her.

" Of course," said the baroness; " of
course, who would not? You find it
lonely? "

" Lonely it certainly is. But I was think-
ing of poor madam. And of Mynheer. I
so deeply pity Mynheer."

" Ah! Take care, Meess, that you do not
too deeply pity Mynheer."

There was so much scornful meaning in
the words that the poor little nursery govern-
ess caught fire.

" Pray, what does your ladyship mean,
may I ask? " she said quickly.

" Fie! what an unwise question. I have
surprised your secret, little Meess. I am wise
— and also I am good. I mean only kindness.
There are feelings akin to pity, so close that
they meet. And often it is dangerous to feel

288 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

them. Often, also, it is quite, quite useless.
I do not know which is worse. But in the
latter case one feels so sorry, and one calls
out * stop/ It is silly, but one does it. Even
a wise person, like me, especially when the
wise person is good. Sleep well, Meess! We
are all worn out. Good-night."

She went into her room and closed the
door, leaving Cicely hot and cold in the pas-
sage — hot with thoughts of herself and of
home; cold with dislike of the woman who
had seemed so sweet. But a moment later
the girl told herself she was unjust. The bar-
oness had acted rightly, and presumably in
kindness. There- is nothing more acutely
painful to a woman than to find a secret sur-
prised which she had been spending her
heart's blood to preserve. Cicely cried her-
self to sleep like a child.

But next morning and the ensuing morn-
ings she was very calm and civil.

" She behaves admirably," reasoned the
young baroness. ** She is only a nursery gov-
erness, after all. The undue prominence in the
household is the fault of the mistress who ran
away." The baroness was very hard on her
dearest friend. Always in perfect health her-
self, " I can not understand these sort of ail-
ments," she said. " You need not talk to me
about them, Lorence. Of course I am full of

MEESS.

289

commiseration, but I simply don't under-
stand."

She was much put out by the repeated
refusals of female relations to come and keep
her company at Braswyck. " My position
here is absurd," she said. " I shall leave to-

morrow."

" Good Heavens, no! You won't desert
me on New Year's Eve," cried Lorence Van
den Hill.

** I shall unless Fritz comes back," she re-
plied, and deliberately went off for a walk
with the governess.

The governess herself was greatly flurried,
for that morning she had received a private
missive, personally handed to her with much
display of secresy by the postman — a letter
from Mevrouw Van den Hill. " I am coming
back," so wrote Mevrouw, " the day after to-
morrow. I want my return to be a complete
surprise to my husband and children. I shall
take a conveyance from the station. I am
very much better. The operation has re-
moved the cause of my prostration. All I
now need, the professor says, is absolute re-
pose. Well, I can have that at Braswyck.
Mind you keep my secret. On no account
breathe a word to any one. I want to see
the eflfect of my sudden return on the poor,
lonely husband at home."

290 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

The governess might listen to the bar-
oness's practised conversation, only one
thought was thumping at her brain — ^how
could she get Mevrouw Dorsveld away be-
fore to-morrow night without betraying her
charge? She was only a nursery governess,
and the dress of the lady walking next to
her must have cost some four hundred
francs!

" You were speaking of a lady coming
here to-day," she at last ventured timidly.
" The lady is not coming? "

** No," replied the other coolly; " shall we
go up the dyke? "

" You will not find the dyke too windy? "

" True, let us turn down here." The bar-
oness called the dogs. " Well, as I was say-
ing, my grandmother used to "

" Then I think you told me you intended
to leave? " Cicely trembled with agitation.

The baroness stared at her, amazed.
" Used to have the fires lighted on the first of
November," continued the baroness after a
moment's pause, *' whatever the temperature
might happen to be."

How strange! " said the wretched Cicely.
Your ladyship must not be angry with me, 1
please; but I was only thinking that — oh! I
don't know how to say it ! " She actually
wrung her hands.

MEESS. 291

"Then don't!" exclaimed the baroness
quickly. " Never say what you don't know
how to say."

" But so much is at stake — I feel that it
is perhaps my duty "

** Your duty! " the baroness blazed around
at her; " your duty, Meess, is to go back and
give the children their lessons. Good-day."
And Dora Dorsveld turned off, white with
fury, walking fast, she knew not whither,
leaving the governess plante-ld.

When they met at lunch of course things
were slightly awkward.

" In this house only the impossible hap-
pens," said Dora to Van den Hill. " You
have noticed, of course, that your little gov-
erness is in love with you "

I; my dear Dora-

" I; my dear Dora "

" And it makes her exceedingly imper-
tinent."

" You are pleased to joke. Meess has
never by word or sign "

" Really? Well, we are uncomfortable. I
have telegraphed to Fritz "

"What?" He started from his chair.

" Unless you return at once, I go home
to-morrow."

He stopped, thunderstruck. " Perhaps
you are right," he said, after a long pause.
" There will be no more singing, then?

292

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" To-night, as a finale, we can sing all the
favourites. It is better I should go."

** Perhaps. I have so greatly enjoyed our
— I — but this about the governess is absurd!"

** It is. And true. Shall we agree not to
mention the ridiculous governess again? "

" So be it. But she is a good, harmless
little creature, who has done her duty bravely
all this time."

" Tell her. She will indeed be happy in
your praise." He walked out of the room,
and Dora remained sitting with her round
chin on her shapely palm.

** Oh, that I had telegraphed yesterday! "
she reflected, with burning cheeks. " Oh,
that the parting was over, and I far away!
Fritz, Fritz, surely every husband gets the
wife that he deserves! " A moment later she
passionately shook her head, " Not Lor-
ence! " she said.

In Cicely's terrified existence the short
day wore slowly to dark. She sat, humbled
with fear and wretchedness, in the school-
room, trying to amuse her pupils, while her
ears were straining to hear, not the voices of
the singers in the great salon, but the sound
of approaching wheels. There would come a
moment when she would hear both. She felt
it was not right that the wife, returning,
should find this familiar guest established thus

MEESS.

293

in her place. Yet, also, she knew that she was
powerless to prevent anything. And repeat-
edly she told herself that all her ideas and
fears were absurd. What did she know of this
foreign world and its proprieties? What of
any great world? The happiness of these rich
people was safe in their own hands. She was
the nursery governess — a jealous fool.

" Let us have candles! *' said Dora at the
piano in the great salon.

" No, no; why should we have candles? "
— ^he bent over her — " you know all the words
by heart, and so do I."

"Yes; but "

" We have learned them all by heart, Dora
— ^by heart."

In the long silence and the darkness there
was little singing.

** Let us go up and dress for dinner," she
said. ** I wonder whether Fritz will come to-
night?"

" We can do without him. You are not
angry with me for saying that? It has been
a happy time for me. You — ^you have made
it bearable — ^you have done a great deal more
— you have — I could not have endured my
misery without you. Instead of that, you

have — you have " He bent down and

kissed her. A faint light was spreading to-
ward them through the opening of the dis-

294 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

tant door. He ran forward. "Elizabeth!*'
he cried, and fell back; then, rushing forward,
drew his wife away into the hall.

"My God! what does this mean?" he
gasped.

" I have come back," she answered in a
dull voice. " Lorence, who was with you in
there? "

He flung himself before the door.
The Meess," he said.
The Meess!" she exclaimed, between
scorn and amiazement, and allowed him to
lead her into her own little sitting-room.

** I had wished to surprise you," she said,
sinking down on a sofa.

" That sort of thing is always a failure,"
he answered irritably. " Well, never mind.
And you are really better? It has been so
strange — ^the separation ! "

" Never mind? " she repeated vaguely,
and sank back among the cushions. She did
not answer when he spoke. Striking a match,
he saw her lying in her travelling things, white
and still. He hurried out and sent her, her
maid.

His next few moments were feverishly oc-
cupied. For he had to explain many things
to Dora and to Cicely! His hurried consul-
tation with the former was interrupted by a
loud clang at the door bell and the arrival

MEESS.

295

of Fritz. The baron's train, coming from the
opposite direction, had deposited him at the
little rural station a few minutes after Me-
vrouw Van den Hill's departure thence.

" Well, what on earth is the matter? " de-
manded Baron Fritz, walking into the now
fully Kghted drawing-room. " Lorence, I
hear that your wife has come back; she had
taken the single decent conveyance. Now,
what on earth can you want with me? "

" / wanted you," said his wife quietly.

"Humph!"

" And I leave you together," interposed
Van den Hill, and ran up to the governess
in the schoolroom. In ten words, hastily,
ashamed, like a man and a coward, he told her
what he hoped of her. The whole happiness
of his home was at stake. And to her what
would it matter? " You can not have been
happy here," he gaspedj " in this miserable,
gloomy hole! Anywhere else you will be
happier. We will do all we possibly can
for you. Any pecuniary compensation I

can

" Silence! " she said steadying herself
against the schoolroom table. " You have
no right to ask this of me. Mynheer Van den
Hill."

" Right? " he repeated. " No, indeed; I
am wronging you cruelly. But what am I

296 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

to do! I am desperate! A married woman!
Her friend! My wife can never forgave me.
And yet, I assure you, like all very good wom-
en, she grossly exaggerates. I have told
her "

" She would not mind the governess," said
Cicely bitterly.

" Not so; you know her too well for that.
But it is different. I do not wish her ever
to know that Mevrouw van Dorsveld has
stayed here all alone. By a merciful dispensa-
tion the baron has returned."

" Returned? " cried Cicely.

"Yes; you see how even Providence in-
terposes on our behalf. No great wrong has
been done, I swear it! Providence will not
permit the ruin of this home for so little!
Think of Mevrouw in her weak health— of her
goodness. Think of the poor little girls. I
do not ask you to consider all I have suf-
fered. I ask nothing but that you do'^iftot
contradict me! Nothing but that."

Cicely sank her face on one hand. " I
won't contradict you," she said. " Please go
away."

He held out his hand, but she could not
see it. He hesitated a moment. " God re-
ward you," he said thickly, and crept from
the room.

An hour later Cicely was sent for.

MEESS.

297

She found Mevrouw Van den Hill alone in
the boudoir.

" This is a strange home coming, Meess,"
began Mevrouw, in a constrained but sor-
rowful voice. " Very different from what I
had expected. But we will not discuss that.
I can make all possible allowances. I am not
angry, only very, very sorry. I think — do
not you? — it would be best that we do not
protract our parting, as part we must. They
are getting ready a carriage to take you to
the town, where you can be accommodated
at the Governess's Home. I — I will do all I
can for you. Mynheer Van den Hill does not
deny that he has been most to blame. I — I
am very sorry."

" Mevrouw," faltered Cicely, " I — I — do
not, please, be unhappy. I hope and trust
you are much better, and will now — ^will — "
She broke down. " Believe me," she said
passionately, " there has been no great wrong
done. Neither by me, nor " She stopped

Mevrouw motioned her away. " I am
willing to believe it," said Mevrouw, " most
willing, God knows. Too willing! indeed, I
am most thankful to hear you say it. There
has been no great wrong done."

" No great wrong done," said Cicely.

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY.

Annette de Viroflay married her cou-
sin Rene of the same name.

They were both orphans; the education
of both had been pretty well neglected. Both
were dependent, in every sense of the word,
on their grumpy, stingy, harmless old grand-
father; and although Rene had been at a
boarding school and Annette in a convent all
through the greater part of their childhood,
yet they must have seen a good deal of each
other during the holidays in the dull old house
which the dull old gentleman inhabited close
to Nancy. Nobody ever knew much about
them or what they did, but everybody knows
that, when she was nineteen and he was twen-
ty-one, their grandfather wrote to each of
them and told them to come home and live
with him. Whereupon they both started, he
from a provincial university where he was
studying law, and she from her Paris convent
school, both arriving on the same October
night, in wind and rain, at their grandsire's

door, within a few hours of each other.
298

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY.

299

The old gentleman received them very
graciously, and settled between them, grump-
ing and chuckling in turns. They, realizing
a certain grown-upness, were awkward in his
presence, and still more awkward when alone.
The only near relations they had, a couple
of venerable aunts, grandpapa's sisters, cried
out against the arrangement, inexpressibly
shocked. But their cries did not reach grand-
papa, who had told them fifty years ago that
he intended all his life long to shock them.
" I shall consider it my highest duty to shock
you,** had said grandpapa; and, really, the re-
cording angel, though he may not have ap-
proved of the means which grandpapa em-
ployed, can hardly have disapproved of the
end he had in view.

" I do not care a brass farthing," said
grandpapa, " what anybody thinks about me
or anybody else. All my life long I have made
it a rule to do exactly as I chose, or, if you pre-
fer, exactly as I thought right. It is the same
thing; the expression depends upon whether
you are a hypocrite or not. I have found my
system answers very well. It requires a good
digestion, freedom from sensitiveness, and an
independent income."

** My dear children," said grandpapa, shift-
ing a little skull cap he wore, " I have sent
for you that you might cheer my old age. I

300

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

have done a great deal for you, and now my
turn has come. Rene will look after things
and read me the newspapers. Annette will
also look after things — other things — and
warm my slippers. We shall be a very happy
family."

Both young people looked submissive.

" My health is very good," said grand-
papa, ** but I am beginning to feel my age,
and I am lonely. The servant who did every-
thing for me is dead, as you know, and the
young man whom I now have is a fool. He
can not even brush my clothes, Rene."

" Do you expect me, sir, to brush your
clothes? " said Rene.

" Well? " replied the old man, closely
watching his grandson with his ferrety eyes.
Annette made a quick sign to her cousin be-
hind grandpapa's back.

" I shall be very glad to do it," said Rene.

" Right ! " exclaimed the old man, hugely
pleased. " I should have turned you out of
the house to-night, young man, if you'd given
me any airs! But I don't expect you to brush
my clothes — I only expect you to scold that
idiot if he doesn't. I can't scold any more;
I'm too old. Ah, me, how I could scold!"
He sighed. ** Sometimes I have thought it
was my scolding killed Pierre. But I don't
believe it. It was indigestion did it. Plums."

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY.

301

" We will do all we can to make you com-
fortable," said Annette.

" My dear, your intentions are laudable.
A woman can't do much to make a man com-
fortable, but Fve no doubt you mean well."
He knocked the ashes out of his pipe. ** Now,
I remember, you don't like smoke? "

" Henceforth I like it," replied Annette,
bravely winking her eyes.

"Admirable! admirable!" said grandpa-
pa. " It's too good to last, but it's an ex-
cellent start."

However, it lasted. For several months
the two grandchildren devotedly tended the
sickly old man. The cousins got on very well
together, by looking at the funny side, and
this attitude also enabled them to endure
what was really in many ways a very trying
time. Both of them had plenty of humour
in their composition; their bright young faces
were always ready for a laugh. Grandpapa,
whose temper was often as short as his breath,
used to say they giggled, but that was dis-
tinctly untrue. And they even spoke kindly
of grandpapa behind his grumpy old back.

One fresh spring morning the master of
the house did not come down to breakfast.
The stupid boy, who was still stupid in spite
of Rene's bright scoldings, reported that, hav-
ing banged at the door and received no an-

302

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

swer, he had concluded monsieur to be still
asleep. Rene went upstairs and discovered
that no banging at the door would ever again
disturb the sleep of Grandpapa Viroflay.

So these two children cried and sent for
the doctor. The doctor having been and hav-
ing informed them that " the deceased had
died from failure of the heart's action," they
cried still more and sent for the notary. The
notary produced a will dividing all the dead
man's estate, in two equal shares, between his
grandchildren, with a pretty little codicil at
the end about their care of him. The notary
told them he thought there must be about a
million francs, and the children cried yet
more. One of them went to stay with the
doctor's wife, and the other with the notary
till after the funeral was over.

At the conclusion of that uninteresting
ceremony the heir and the heiress remained
behind in the uninhabited house. Having
seen the last guest depart, they looked at each
other awkwardly and blushed. The notary
had asked Rene what they intended to do,
and Rene had replied that really he did not
know. Rene had inquired of the notary
where the money was, and the notary had told
Rene that really he didn't know either.

" I have the keys," said Rene, who had
taken them out of the dead man's pocket.

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY. 303

He shuddered slightly at the thought of the
dead man's garments now. " Supposing we
go upstairs and look? '*

" I would rather begin down here," replied
Annette, with a little shudder too. So with
hushed footfall and hushed voices they began
wandering from cupboard to cupboard. But
they knew the contents of these. Those con-
tents were quite uninteresting.

"Come, nonsense! he isn't there," said
Rene, with the roughness of agitation, and
pushed into grandpapa's room and up to the
cupboard which grandpapa always kept
locked. He turned the key twice — b, strong
lock it was — and drew the door open. A pile
of papers fell forward, almost upsetting him.
A couple of others came toppling and slipping
amid an avalanche of scrip and bond of all
sorts. Annette and Rene sat down suddenly
on the floor.

The April sun poured through the mus-
lin-curtained windows into the dusty room.
On the floor, in the golden light, sat
the two Viroflays, neither of whom had
ever owned more than a hundred francs at
a time, amid a deluge of nineteenth-century
gold.

" All that paper — ^is it money? " whispered
Annette.

" I believe so," said Rene.

304 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Nobody ever spends as much as that/'
said Annette.

" Nobody ever could," said Rene.

And he dabbled among a little lake of
crimson-coloured papers, letting the silken tis-
sue crackle between his fingers; she watched
him with much interest. All the colours
of the rainbow were around them: blue and
green and purple, yellow and violet and gold.
They had no idea what the difference was or
what the value, but soon both of them noted
the ciphers — 500 francs — 1,000 francs— of the
nominal emission, and suddenly those ciphers
brought home to both the fact that they were
rich.

" Half of it all belongs to you and half
belongs to me," said Rene.

** It would never be possible to separate
our shares," replied Annette.

" Nothing would be easier," said Rene,
with increasing confidence. A long silence
ensued.

" But why should we do so? " said
Rene.

" Why, indeed? You can keep it for us
both," answered Annette.

"I? I could never do that. I should
never sleep a night. . But we can give it to
the notary to keep, and spend as much of it
as we want together."

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY. 305

*'Oh! I should not want much of it to
spend! *'

" Spend as much of it as we want to-
gether, Annette/' His voice was very low,
and it shook. They looked into each other's
faces. He, drawing his hand from among the
papers with a crackle seized hers. And so
they were engaged.

" It is very wrong," said Annette, half cry-
ing; " in poor, dear grandpapa's room."

" It will save a lot of trouble and expense
with the notary," replied Rene, " and grand-
papa would have been sure to have liked
that."

They got married as soon as they decently
could, and they went to live in grandpapa's
house. The notary, who saw they were very
inexperienced, let them have as little money
as they needed. So they lived on for more
than a year in perfect happiness, and they had
a little Rene. Grandpapa's sisters (who were
very well off) even came to see them and
showed no malice. They took warmly to
little Rene (they maintained he was like
grandpapa), and they declared to Annette
that they liked her, but they told Rene, to her
extreme indignation, that they thought him
a bit of a fool. It would be untrue to affirm
that Annette shared the old ladies' opinion,
but certainly she need not have shown herself

306 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

SO excessively offended, if the charge had been
altogether as outrageous as she averred.

When Hector de Viroflay went to see
them he said they were turtle-doves. But
Hector de Viroflay is no judge, for with him
all that sort of thing is mock-turtle. He is
a distant cousin, by the by, of the young
couple; he had been at school with Rene.

** Perfectly idyllic,'' said Hector, smoking*
a cigarette, ** and so cheap! you are a lucky
man, Rene.*'

I am," replied Rene.

Though why you should make it so
cheap goodness only knows! Some men like
saving money. Your grandfather did."

" I don't," said Rene. ** I hate saving
money, putting it by. Money is made round
that it may roll, I always say. I spend what-
ever the notary gives me."

Hector sat up and opened his big eyes.

"Oh, delightful!" he exclaimed; "and
then you ask for more! "

" No, no," replied Rene uncomfortably;
" he would not like me to do that."

" Would not like? But the money is
yours. What on earth do you mean about
not saving money? Your grandfather left
about a million. You can*t spend more than
a third of your income here! "

" I don't know. I don't know anything

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY.

307

about money, except that I like spending it.
What do you think I ought to do? "

" Take your money away from the notary
at once," replied Hector, with great decision.
*' People who leave their money with lawyers
always, sooner or later, awake to find them-
selves penniless."

" Now you say it, of course that is true,"
admitted Rene, keeping down his agitation,
'* though I could never believe it of our no-
tary "

" People never believe it of their notary,"
put in Hector.

" But I grant you it is so. However, I
can not go and take it away from him to-
night."

" No, but you can to-morrow morning."

Rene turned hot and cold at the idea. He
blushed and paled a good deal more, all the
same, in the notary's office next afternoon.
It was a very uncomfortable interview, he
thought. The suave and practical man of
business (whose conscience was clear in spite
of his suavity) expressed a satisfaction he
could impossibly feel. " It is right that you
should manage your own aflfairs. Monsieur de
Viroflay," he said. " If ever you should get
tired of money matters, let me look after
yours sooner than a stranger; good-bye."

Red and embarrassed, but triumphant.

308 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

Rene emerged into the street, where Hector
was waiting for him. " Honestly," he said,
" and to tell you the truth, Hector, I often
quite longed for a sight of those exquisitely
printed coloured things."

" Of course," replied Hector; " I can't
think why you didn't ask for them sooner."

" Oh! Annette always said they were just
as well at the notary's."

" What does a woman know of money
matters? " exclaimed Hector.

What, indeed? " cried Rene.
What, indeed? " said Annette, when
they propounded her this conundrum. She
thought the papers might just as well have
been left at the lawyer's; now they would have
to buy an iron safe for them, and that was an
unnecessary expense. Hector immediately
pointed out to her that the lawyer's percent-
age came much more expensive, and she said
humbly, after slow thought, that was true.
She knew nothing, as they said, about finance.

But she hailed with the same exultation
as Rene the suggestion by Hector that they
should leave this dull town and establish
themselves in Paris. They were young, they
were good looking, of good blood and good
fortune — in fact, it was absurd that they
should stick on down here. When they came
to think of it, it was; Annette felt ashamed.

am a

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY.

309

even to herself, of some sneaking regrets for
her pigeons, a particular corner in the garden
(caterpillars), the pussies (they grow into
cats), even the pigs. This anti-climax con-
vinced her of her own foolishness. They
would have plenty of acquaintances in Paris,
and Hector would introduce Rene whereso-
ever he desired — Hector knew everybody;
half a dozen years ago he had made his debut
in society with that unfortunate affair about
Diane de Bragade.

To all parties the first weeks in Paris were
highly enjoyable. The little family had taken
a house of their own at Paris in the Avenue
Martin, so as to be near the Bois for baby.
Annette took baby and his Nounou to see
Guignol in the Champs-Elysees, and, with the
little fellow's yells of delight in her ears, she
told herself what fools they had been to re-
main in the country. She herself enjoyed
Paris with all a Frenchwoman's graceful ca-
pacity for innocent enjoyment, and, being a
Frenchwoman — moreover, a Frenchwoman of
birth and wealth — she easily assumed the po-
sition she was expected to fill. Hector pi-
loted Rene into two good clubs, the Mirlitons
and the Moutards (** singularly appropriate '*
murmured Hector), and into men's society
generally. And soon both of them went
wherever they chose. They chose a good

3IO

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

deal. The aunts wrote to Annette and sent
her some introductions to very old people of
the Faubourg. Annette went there also,
alone. It was there my mother met her, and
liked her. No more need be said.

So the weeks of life ran on, brightly paint-
ed, highly varnished, with gutta-percha tires.
There had been a great deal of amusement
about the iron safe, which they had all gone
to purchase together, including baby. Rene
had insisted upon baby being sat down in it
first as their greatest treasure of all. Natu-
rally baby had yelled, and the salesman, a bald
gentleman whose entire exceedingly respect-
able existence was concentrated on burglars,
had smiled with a pity akin to love.

They had nicknamed the safe la tante, for
no reason whatever, excepting that Hector
possessed a rich old aunt of whose stinginess
he was always complaining. " Our aunt is
more good natured,'* they said, and they
would gladly have made her Hector's aunt
also, but this he declined. He was quite
willing to use all their comforts, to eat their
dinners, to drive in their carriages, to win a
few napoleons from Rene at some card game,
but he refused to take their money.

" My aunt must unlock some day," he
said. *' She won't be able to help it."

So they enjoyed Paris and had a very good

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY. 311

time of it, but gradually Hector began to find
that Rene played more than was good for
him. " What a fool he is," thought Hector,
who despised though he rather liked him.
** He doesn't know how to choose his recre-
ations sensibly, that's clear." For Rene had
resolutely turned his back on some diversions
that had been proposed to him.

" I won't go to anything," he had said,
" which prevents my looking my wife straight
in the face when I get home."

Annette, also, when the first excitement
was over, began to suspect, and faintly to sug-
gest, that they might be spending too much.
Rene reassured her, painstakingly proving
that their current expenses did not exceed
the sum the notary had declared to be their
average income. When the bills came in, all
these fallacies were upset, with no disadvan-
tage to anybody, for Rene's computations
were not even correct when he fancied they
were.

" Rene," began Annette, almost timidly,
one evening, " could ma tante let me have a
new dress, do you think? "

" Two new dresses," he answered boister-
ously. She could not understand why he
blushed.

" No, I don't want two at this moment,
and we must not exhaust the old lady."

312 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Exhaust?. Nonsense! Her health is all
the better for a little bleeding."

" Well, I think I must have my dress/'
quietly responded Annette. He kissed her,
and went out. She remained pensive, with
her chin on her palm. When Hector dropped
in presently she talked about various trifles
before she said: " Hector, I want to ask you
something: Does Rene play? "

** Of course," he answered; "everybody
does."

** You know what I mean. Does he
gamble? "

" Gamble? My dear cousin, what an ugly
word! He certainly occasionally plays very
high."

** Thank you," she said, " you are a good
friend to us. Hector." And she held out
her hand, which he kissed. He actually
liked Annette, although my mother liked
her.

When Rene came home, rather late, he
found his wife sitting up for him in a white
dressing gown. He looked hot; she looked
worried. " I wish you wouldn't sit up," he
said; " IVe asked you before."

" Rene," she replied, " IVe been thinking;
I fear we spend too much money."

"Bothering again!" he cried sharply.
" One would think you were as stingy as

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY.

313

grandpapa! Money, I tell you, was made to
spend."

" You do not deny, then, that we spend
a good deal? "

" I do not. Shall we eat less meat? "

" Rene, you are unjust. Admit " — she
looked straight at him — ** that you spend too
much!"

" I do not. Do you grudge it me? "

Still she looked straight at him. " Yes
and no," she answered. " How much did you
lose at play to-night? "

"Annette!"

" You do not choose to answer? "

"Pooh! Yes! Why not? The money
is as much mine as yours. Ten thousand
francs."

" And yesterday? "

" Five. But I had a run of luck the night
before."

And won? "

Two. Annette, you are insupportable."

She got up, came toward him, put her
arms round his neck. " Promise me not to
play any more! " she said pleadingly.

" I give you the promise. On one condi-
tion. You mustn't mind my breaking it."

She loosened her arm. " At least, you are
honester than most men," she said a little
bitterly.

314

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Annette, I will do anything you like for
you. But look here; I must play. Everybody
does. And, besides, what do you care? I
hate a woman who is fond of money."

" Would you hke a spendthrift better? "
she asked.

" Yes, a thousand times yes." She
dropped the subject, seeing he was not in
a mood to talk sense.

But a few days later she took it up again
when he, coming home long past midnight,
found her still sitting up to receive him.

*'Oh! look here— I can't have this," he
cried.

" Rene, you have been losing again! "

He sat down by a table. " Yes," he said,
and almost banged down his fist. " If there's
anything a man hates, it is a nagging woman,
Annette!"

She walked right to the other end of the
room, and stood with her back to him. "You
will lose everything," she said in a low voice.

" Well, and if I did? But I shan't. The
luck will turn, and, besides, I'm not a gam-
bler. But, if I did lose everything, there'd
always be plenty left."

" Where? " she asked, turning quickly.

" The grandaunts are as old as the hills.
They'll soon be a second inheritance, like
grandpapa! "

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY. jrj

"You want them to die— even suppos-
ing t

" No, I don't. The Jews'd wait. Non-
sense, Annette; you worry me into saying a
lot of things I don't mean. Do leave me alone
and go to bed."

She came toward him quickly, with sud-
den resolve.

" It is your unfairness disgusts me! " she
cried. " Half the money is mine! Why
should you spend it all on your amusements,
pray? "

" What on earth do you mean? " he cried,
utterly taken aback. " I never objected to
anything."

*' Oh ! I dare say not. I should think not.
My few dresses and necessaries, you hardly
could object to those! You can spend tens of
thousand, Rene, at the gaming table, and you
can come home and talk about women who
love money, because I faintly protest. I
thank you heartily. If you like gaming, I
like jewels and dresses — oh! far finer jewels
and dresses than I ever had yet! You prefer
a spendthrift wife ! You shall have her— as
spendthrift, sir, spendthrift as you please!
I do not object to your spending your
money on yourself; I object to your spend-
ing mine! Half of it is mine, I tell you—
mine ! I like dresses, I repeat to you, and

3l6 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

jewels! Oh, believe me, I shall spend my
half! "

" I never saw you like this before," he
stuttered. " I can not imagine what has
come to you!"

" What has come to me? The desire to
enjoy while I can! Yes, I shall enjoy — im-
mensely. There is plenty, you say, in la tante
if we bleed her, and, afterward, there are the
poor old problematical grandaunts! I hardly
believe in the grandaunts."

He burst into a roar of laughter. An im-
mense weight was lifted from his conscience.
"What splendid times we shall have!" he
cried. " Vogue la gaUre! Annette, I must go
for a bottle of champagne! "

" We can have the champagne at lunch-
eon," she said. ** Let's go to bed now. It's
past one o'clock." So the champagne was
postponed for the nonce, and next morning
Annette almost looked surprised when Rene
came in to luncheon with a case containing a
diamond necklace.

"You are right," he said; "you have
far too few jewels." She was silent. " You
like it, don't you? " he inquired, rather anx-
iously.

" I don't much care for the shape," she
said slowly. " Where did you get it? "

" At Veratry's, in the Rue de la Paix."

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY.

317

" You wouldn't mind my changing it? "
she asked.

'* Oh, no! " he said, piqued. But they
went to the opera together, and during the
next few days she bought a number of very
handsome dresses at David's, and also she gra-
ciously allowed him to come with her and
select various articles of jewelry. She bought
heaps of things right and left. A madness
seemed upon her. Nothing could be too
costly for her taste in the way of trinkets.
Even Rene, after the first week, drew back.
" If my madness is play," he said, " yours is
diamonds."

She turned upon him quite furiously.
" You grudge me my half," she said. A
day or two after that she came to him with
a couple of enormous bills — a fortune in jew-
els, a fortune in gowns.

" Tis impossible," he said, thunderstruck.
** Even admitting the jewels, the dresses can't
have cost so much as that! "

** What does a man know about the price
of dresses? What do I know of the stakes at
lansquenet? Tell me honestly — to my face —
if you dare — have I spent upon these dresses
a quarter of what you have spent at play? "

" Oh, bother! I didn't say I wasn't going
to pay. We shall have to bleed la tante! "

They went and had a look at la tante to-

3i8 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

gether. She was very substantial outside, but
inside she was wasting away. Yes, there were
gaps in her inside.

" Give me the money in papers/' said An-
nette, who still was not aware that a deben-
ture for one thousand francs may not be
worth that sum.

He refused. He had refused several times
before to give her scrip, and she had to be
content till he brought her the money.

" Give me my whole fortune at once,*' she
had said one day. But that was the only time
in all their married life that they seriously
quarrelled. He thought she doubted his hon-
our or something, and refused to speak to
her for two days.

** What is mine is yours," he said, with
tears in his eyes when they were making it
up and embracing. " Buy diamonds, if you
like, for every penny we possess, but don't
talk as if you distrusted me, Annette."

Certainly a madness seemed upon her, es-
pecially after Hector, very much pressed, had
confessed that Rene's losses, as early as last
winter, had been far heavier than his wife
could know. Whether the time the couple
were having was as fully enjoyable as Rene
had fancied, it would be hard to say. It was
brilliant certainly, and much remarked on.
"You can't want another diadem!" cried

a 99

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY. 319

Rene desperately. " Annette, you've no right
to waste money as you do! "

She flashed out at him: " I thought that
you liked a spendthrift wife!

" So I do, but not to madness.

"I shall spend as much as I choose, Rene.

" Annette — think of our child."

After that they were both very silent ; he,
unable to bear his wretchedness, ran out of
the house.

He came back at night, haggard. He said
nothing about her waiting up for him. To-
gether they entered his " study."

** Well," she said, " can you let me have
the money, Rene? I fear I must have it to-
morrow morning."

" How much is it? " he asked in a hoarse
voice.

" Seventy thousand francs. It's a very
large sum — but — but — it's a beautiful thing."

He dragged himself across to the iron safe,
opened it, cleaned out its contents, and car-
ried the bundle to the table. There he be-
gan counting up their value. Presently he
stopped with a groan.

" There isn't so much as seventy thousand
francs here," he said. ** You — ^you have had
more than your share, Annette."

" More than my share? And, pray, how
much did you lose to-night? "

320 SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Not a halfpenny. I haven't touched a
card for a fortnight. Ask Hector. Tm sick
of it. It's ruined us. If I were ever so
wealthy, I should never play again."

She stood looking at him, her eyes dilated,
full of the impulse she was keeping back.

Suddenly he burst out: "The boy! The
boy! Our boy!" And he covered his face
with his hands.

" You accuse me? " she said.

" No; I accuse myself. The fault was
mine. I began it."

Suddenly she knelt down beside him.
** Rene," she said, " do not be angry with me.
It was a madness: it is over."

But the child is ruined," he said.
Not ruined. Look here. I still possess
this paper. The madness was yours, my hus-
band. It is over. See, I have done my best."

With dazed eyes he gazed at the docu-
ment she* was spreading out before him. It
was a deed in which Monsieur Veratry pledged
himself to take back, if required within two
months, from Madame de Viroflay all the
jewels she had purchased from him, at a dis-
count of five per cent.

" Is it possible? " stammered Rene.
" What does it mean? "

" I did not buy them at all," replied An-
nette, blushing. " It was a little conspiracy

ANNETTE DE VIROFLAY. 32 1

of mine; you must forgive me. He lent them
to me, so to speak, for two months, and I
paid him a deposit of their full value and
thirty per cent."

** You have become quite a woman of
business," he said.

** And the dressmakers' bills," she con-
tinued quickly; " /A£?y represented four times
the sum that was really spent on clothes.
The rest was money lent at interest. All the
big dressmakers do it."

" I know," he said; ** how did you? "

" Somebody told me as a joke."

" But what did you want with all that
money, Annette? "

** To give it back to you," she said, and
laid her head upon his shoulder, " I wanted
to get hold of it," she sobbed, *' and I could
think of no other way. I saw that you were
spending all the money in — at the club, Rene,
and I knew when you were ruined you would
stop. It was no use my asking for a few
thousand francs, so I ran up bills for im-
mense sums, and you had to pay them.
But the bills will only cost you a per-
centage, Rene; you can have the money
back."

He sat staring moodily in front of him.
She tried to turn his head, wistfully seeking
his eyes.

322

SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN.

" Tis my fault," he said. " I have de-
served it."

" Don't speak like that, Rene. Rene, I
don't think I should have done it, but for the
child."

" Nay, the fault is mine; I admit it. You
could not trust me."

** I trust you so much that, the moment
the madness is over, I bring you all the money
back again. Take it, Rene — take all that is
left " — she pushed the paper into his hands.
** What prevents your going back to the
club? "

Then he turned round and caught her in
his arms, and kissed her again and again.
" We will take what is left," he said—" God
forgive me, it is your share only! — and take
it back to the notary to keep for us, while we
live in the old house at home! "

THE END.

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